


The Flirt Part 2

by KylaBosch



Series: The Flirt [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friendship, Young Love, comment meme, prompts, teen!sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaBosch/pseuds/KylaBosch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Title:</b> The Flirt Part 2<br/><b>Scribbler:</b> KylaBosch<br/><b>Summary:</b> A continuation of Flirt Part 1. Sansa is immediately attracted to Sandor, especially because of his scars. She immediately attempts to woo him and Sandor doesn't know how to react. This was written for littlebirdhound who requested this prompt for the now closed <a href="http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com-sandor/143042.html?thread=3130562#t3130562">Comment Meme #4</a> over on sansa_sandor.<br/><b>Warnings/Ratings:</b> Current Chapter PG for language and dark themes<br/><b>Disclaimer:</b> All this belongs to GRRM. Am just playing with the characters/theme. I promise to return them safe and sound when I'm done. ;)<br/><b>Beta Readers:</b> A huge thank you to weshallflyaway for your constant help even in light of your crazy schedule!<br/><b>Other notes:</b> This is a direct continuation of <a href="http://kylathelurker.livejournal.com/4419.html">The Flirt Part 1</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Happy Beginnings?

Neither the night sky nor its pale moon could drown the sickly green glow that clung to everything in sight. It reminded Sandor of his former Masters; their emerald eyes watching from every corner and shadow. The young warrior knew better, however in his state of inebriation it was difficult to ignore the relation. With his hand on the hilt of his sword and a satchel over his shoulder, the two young lovers departed into the war torn night.  
  
Much to his surprise, no one paid them any mind; the guards and soldiers were far too distracted by the chaos unfolding around them. Maegor’s holdfast was closed as Sansa had warned, yet they found no resistance. One look at his marred face, and the cowering beauty standing in front of him and the guards were scrambling to open the gates. They needed no explanations, Sandor’s loyalty to the king was legendary. They also knew better than to question his majesty’s orders.   
  
When they found Stranger within the stables he was attacking some would-be thieves, readying and mounting the courser quickly, the two set off for the drawbridge that led to the outer courtyard. Fortunately for them, the guards were either dead, or had long since abandoned their post in the chaos, leaving the bridge accessible to all. Even the Barbican was found unattended, its portcullis lowered permitting them an easy departure; an unexpected sight, but not an unwelcome one.   
  
There was no escaping the screams of dying men and steel clashing against steel that filled the night air. The scent of blood, smoke, and burning flesh, was also stronger beyond the walls of the Red Keep. The sights that greeted them were equally brutal. Sandor was untroubled by it all; the warrior was accustomed to battle and the macabre images that came with it. It was Sansa, now seated in front of him on his courser that drew his concern; he knew not how she would respond. The maiden however, remained silent as the grave. Her perfect porcelain features carefully hidden beneath a cloak of autumn gold, added to the visage of calm that seemed to exude from her. Only the warmth of her tiny fingers gently squeezing his hand revealed her need for assurance. Unfamiliar with such gestures, Sandor was uncertain how to respond. Truthfully, he needed the assurance almost as much as she did.   
  
The journey to the iron gates proved less eventful than either had feared. Most of the men were busy fighting battles of their own and had enough sense to get out of their way. Those not quick enough were either knocked off their feet, or trampled on. The black courser was eager to put as much distance between them and the Red Keep as possible; a sentiment the scarred warrior and his little bird shared. Even at a steady gallop it felt like an eternity before the giant gates came into view. Sandor immediately sobered at the sight, for it was heavily guarded and drawn shut. There would be no easy way to depart without drawing unwanted attention.  The guards called out demanding they stop their approach. Instinctively, the Hound slipped his hand to the hilt of his blade. With a gentle squeeze of his fingers and a hidden smile, Sansa immediately took control of the situation.   
  
‘Good evening Sers,’ she began in kind tones. If the guards were aware of the young woman’s relation to the King it did not show.   
  
‘No further Hound. Queen’s orders,’ announced the taller of two burly soldiers ignoring the northern princess’ greeting.  Still reeling from the wine, and the battle of Black Water Bay, the scarred warrior felt the last of his patience slipping away. When Sandor reached for his blade the guards promptly drew their own swords. Immediately, he felt Sansa’s fingers resting heavily atop his hand resting on the hilt.    
  
‘Good Sers, I beg your pardons, Sa—The Hound meant no offense by his actions. The King has ordered him to escort me to Casterly Rock. There I am to remain, until his majesty feels it is safe for my return,’ she politely explained.  The first guard readily bought her story. His colleague, a burly bearded man who reminded Sandor far too much of Gregor, glared at them in suspicion.   
  
‘The Lion gates-’ the burly man began, again ignoring the little bird’s sweet chirps.   
  
‘-has been taken by Stannis’ men,’ Sandor interrupted. ‘You heard the girl. I’m under the King’s instruction. He doesn’t give a damn how she gets there, only that she makes it intact and untouched. Either you let us pass, or I bloody well run you through for questioning my King’s orders!’ he barked. The men needed no further encouragement. Soon they were passing through the gates, and making their way along the road that led to Rosby.   
  
It was some time later, as Stranger galloped along the well-worn path leading north before the scarred warrior began to relax. It was about time someone answered the little bird’s prayers. Though far from safety, Sandor guided his horse down the main road. There would be time enough for hiding in shadows, travelling along deer paths, and everything else that came with being on the run. Even though his thoughts swam with wine, the warrior knew better than to believe the night would end just like one of his little bird’s many stories. Only fools believed in happily ever after.  
  
Then Sansa leaned back against his chest, her delicate fingers slipping over his hands encouraging him to hold her near. The faint crisp scent of lemon and flowers that lingered about her filled his nostrils, just as the warmth of her body teased the rest of him. It was not long before Sandor had forgotten all that was troubling him moments ago. Happy endings may not exist in the real world; perhaps, happy beginnings did.


	2. All Left Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Count:** 1565  
>  **Beta Readers:** A huge thank you to for your constant help and advice!   
>  Also a huge shout out and thank you to for also going over this tale! I am so grateful for all your help, advice and insight into this wonderful prompt!

I can’t do it. I just can’t,’ Sansa argued, shaking her head. It was all Sandor could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Two days had passed since their departure and it had been just as long since either one had slept. Having ridden hard since the battle of Blackwater Bay through wind, storms, rain, and the constant threat of capture, they were both exhausted. It was nearly evening when they had stumbled upon the ruins of what had once been a septry, or so it appeared, in the middle of the woods. 

After Sandor had ensured Stranger was well fed and watered, he attempted to start a fire with what kindling he could find. Unfortunately, the heavy rainstorms had soaked through everything, and after a third failed attempt to start a fire, the young warrior was at his wits end. He could do without arguments over something as petty as a haircut. 

‘Can’t or won’t,’ Sandor growled in frustration. 

‘I won’t, the maiden warned, her blue eyes growing wide with fear and obstinacy, 'and neither can you make me!’ 

Sansa had lived through constant beatings, public humiliation, the loss of her family, and her freedom; not once did she ever complain. Where most girls would have openly protested in defiance, thus getting themselves killed, the little bird kept silent. Only the weight in her blue eyes, the subtle crease of her brow, and the tiny scars of nail imprints on the palms of her hands gave her away. Like him, Sansa had learned to wear the mask of indifference in order to survive. It did not mean she felt nothing. Which made her verbal protests to his suggestion they shorn her long hair, so as to disguise her as a farmer’s daughter, all the more baffling to the frustrated warrior. 

‘Then I may as well throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to your king,' Sandor snapped, 'save them the bother of hunting for you!’ 

Sansa gasped in horror. 'You wouldn't.'

‘I bloody well should,’ he growled. Scowling to himself, the scarred young man began a fourth time to start a fire; a poor attempt at distraction. Lack of sleep caused tempers to run high, and despite knowing better, Sandor began to second guess the validity of their escape plan. He could feel the little bird watching him intently, making it a struggle for him to remain focussed. As expected the twigs and leaves were still far too soaked to start even the smallest flame.

‘Father loved my long hair,' Sansa quietly lamented after a long pause. 'He used to say it was as beautiful as Mother’s.’ 

‘Spare me your vanity, girl,' the Hound rasped in irritation, kicking the useless mound of kindling. 'You think your lord father gives a damn about your hair now? He’s food for the worms!’ Horrified by his statement, Sansa stared at him in shock and sorrow, her blue eyes filling with unshed tears. Sandor was not about to apologize for the truth. ‘Stupid little bird. He’d rather you alive with cut hair than dead, for true. Besides, it will grow back. Now let us be done with it once and for all,’ he rasped, feeling exasperated by the whole argument.

‘I’ll look like a boy, like Arya,’ Sansa protested in weak tones. 

‘Might be, if boys started growing teats,’ The Hound mocked with a smirk. Sansa gaped at him in disbelief, her cheeks burning a bright red. Sandor saw she was about to protest further and promptly interrupted her.

‘Gods be damned, girl! You’re a highborn, a princess of the North. Change your clothes, put mud under your nails and on your cheek and you’ll still be that girl. Your hair is like silk. It’s obvious that its well cared for and groomed. What farmer’s daughter has the luxury of proper combs and brushes? Or baker’s get can afford that scented oil you use to make it smell so nice? If they’re like to believe that you’re just another pretty wench from Kingslanding you’ll have to do better than that,’ he rasped. 

‘You will think me ugly,’ she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. The absurdity of such a statement made the young man laugh in bitter tones. 

‘What in seven hells would you know of ugliness, girl? Now quit your peeping, and let’s be done with it!’ There was no further resistance on her part. 

Tears spilled down her blushing cheeks as the young maiden quietly braided her hair, and with a weak nod of assent, she permitted him to begin. It took little effort to cut Sansa’s braid of fire; it took far more control to ignore her silent sobs. 

Had he the gift of speech, Sandor might have spoken of her beauty, or the way she made him feel. But how could he tell her that he would brave the fires of all seven hells for one of her pretty smiles? Or find the words to express how she was his fairy tale; the beautiful maiden with a heart so gentle. It was her faith in him which gave Sandor the courage to face the wildfires of Blackwater bay. That her kindness gave hope that perhaps he could be something more than just broken dog. But Sandor was no poet, no highborn noble either. He was a warrior, a man of few words who knew not how to express what weighed on his mind and heart. So instead, he gave her the long braid and told her it was done. Ever mindful of her manners, the little bird politely thanked him before quietly asking for a moment alone. 

The sun was rapidly setting and Sandor knew it would not be wise to travel far from camp. It did not stop him from wandering about in the woods, his thoughts heavy with memories of the past and trepidation for the future. Despite its necessity, the scarred warrior felt a bit guilty at her sorrow. He wondered if in protecting his little bird he had inadvertently ruined whatever it was they had come to share. At ten and seven years of age, Sandor knew nothing of relationships. What little he had observed was limited to vague memories of his grandparents, and vivid observations of loveless marriages. Neither offered much insight on proper courtship, certainly not with a Northern princess. 

The hour was late when Sandor withdrew from his thoughts long enough to register his surroundings. The moon was full against a blanket of darkness hanging heavily in the sky, a perfect reflection was cast in the inky black waters of the pond at his feet. As beautiful as it might have been, it was the strange nocturnal blooms growing near the water that caught his attention. Dark blue in colour, with white centres, it reminded him of the Northern ice roses his grandmother once cherished. Recalling the memories of a more innocent time, Sandor began to collect a handful of the dark blue blooms. With great care the scarred teenager carefully wove the flower stems until he had created a delicate crown. As a little boy, he often made such floral crowns for his late sister; Sandor hoped the princess would like it as much as his little sister once did. 

The journey back to the septry ruins proved longer than anticipated. It did not take long for Sandor to question his actions, or doubt Sansa’s response to them. He knew a lady’s heart could be fickle, he had seen it often enough in court. Did he really believe she would want anything to do with him now? ‘Seven bloody hells,’ he murmured with a scowl. Once he mocked Sansa for being so naïve and blind, but was he any different? Only in fairy tales would a beautiful maiden reward such a childish token of affection with a smile, or a kiss. Happy endings were for handsome knights and highborn nobles, not ugly broken dogs. You pathetic, empty-headed fool, Sandor thought in disgust, his eyes falling to the intricate floral crown he held. With a muttered curse, the scarred warrior crushed the petals between his fingers before tossing the remains of his lady’s crown into the thick brush. 

Upon his return to the ruins, it came as no surprise that the encampment was quiet. The moon was well in the sky, and Lady Sansa was certain to have gone to sleep on the makeshift straw bed he had made for her earlier. Yet something felt wrong. 

‘Little bird?’ Sandor rasped in low tones. Only the rustle of trees in the wind answered his call. ‘Lady Sansa?’ he called out again. A wolf howled in the distance, yet not a sound was heard within the crumbling ruins. Torn between fear and frustration, the scarred warrior scanned the shadows of the derelict building in search for any signs of trouble; they were alone. 

‘Sansa-bloody hells girl, wake up!’ Sandor murmured, approaching her bedroll. The moonlight peering through the giant holes of what had once been a roof revealed a neatly made bedroll. Frantic, he tore back the blanket; only to find straw, as expected. In silence he took in his surroundings. Their food, supplies, and the remainder of his tourney winnings was gone; only Sansa’s bedroll, and his courser, Stranger, remained. 

His worst nightmare had truly come to pass; the little bird had finally flown away.


	3. The Fairy Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor encounters another member of Sansa's 'pack' and learns the hard way that fairy tales is just the enactment of life from different perspective...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM. Am just playing with the characters/theme. Also please note that some of the lines in this chapter were/are taken directly from his books. This is due in part to the fact this chapter touches on canon scenes. As such (just to state the obvious)I claim nothing to be mine. It is entirely Mr. Martins! I'm just borrowing his muses for a bit, and promise to return them in one piece (and in a happier state than he's sure to leave them lol)**  
>  **Word Count:** 2609  
>  **Beta Readers:** A huge thank you to Littlebirdhound for going over this tale! I am so grateful for all your help, advice and insight into this wonderful prompt!

It had been a sennight since the little bird had flown out of his life, and Sandor had taken to drowning his sorrows in wine at every turn. Lost, and without hope, the young warrior continued his journey north with neither a purpose nor care for the future. Rest came only when exhaustion or the flagons drunk prevented him from moving onward. His heart was broken, and he had cursed Sansa, then himself for caring about her, for failing to know better than to trust the little bird’s pretty words. What woman would ever love a broken dog?  
  
One night, Sandor stirred in his sleep to the scent of rain in the air, and the weight of cold steel pressed against his throat. ‘Get up! Get up now before I gut you!’  A girl's voice barked, drawing him out of his restless dreams. Sleep addled, and still drunk from the wine consumed only a short time ago, the Hound muttered a curse, swatting at the sword that was pointed at his throat. He nearly drifted back to sleep, but was soon awakened to more voices arguing amongst themselves.  
  
‘Gods, he’s huge,' gasped another voice. 'Almost as big as the Mountain! And ugly besides!’  
  
The girls’s voice cut in. ‘That’s because he’s the Hound, the Mountain's little brother.'  
  
‘Arry,' came a third voice, 'this really ain’t a good idea.  Let’s just take his food and be gone before he wakes up.’  
  
‘No! He has to pay for what he’s done!’ she snapped, kicking Sandor hard in the ribs. His eyes snapped open as he grunted a curse in pain. Grabbing the girl by the wrist, he wrenched the sword out of her grasp with ease before tossing it well out of her reach. Furious, Arry quickly yanked her wrist free.  
  
Staggering to his feet the Hound gave a harsh laugh. ‘Brat has more balls than brains,’ he mocked gazing down at her. Her companions, what little he could make of them in the darkness, instinctively took a step back, clearly unnerved by his size; Arry however, remained undeterred. ‘I’ll give you that one,' he rasped in slurred tones, 'but if you’re stupid enough to try it again, I’ll hurt you.'  
  
The girl sniffed in disgust. ‘You’re too drunk to do anything,’ she retorted glaring up at him.  
  
Ignoring the brat’s glib remark, Sandor took in his surroundings.  The crescent moon and the blanket of stars in the sky gave little light but it was enough for him to make out his would-be thieves. There were two boys, one who appeared to be around his age or near enough, the other was heavy set. The girl was petite and if his guess was right looked somewhat younger than the little bird. As the moon cast its light on the girl’s features, Sandor’s eyes grew wide in recognition.  
  
‘Seven hells!' He rasped in disbelief. 'The little sister. The brat who tossed Joff’s pretty sword into the river. Don’t you know you’re dead?’ Only then did he vaguely recall Sansa’s words; once she spoke of a dream about her sister, a she-wolf who escaped the lions.  
  
 _She's not dead. No matter what they say, I know Arya is alive. I have seen her in my dreams._ Sandor scowled to the memory.  
  
‘You killed Mycah!' Arya shouted, forcing his muddled thoughts back to the present. 'Don’t say you never did! You murdered him!’  
  
‘Who was this Mycah, girl?’ Sandor snapped in confusion.  
  
‘He was my friend, and you killed him!' Arya pressed on. 'Jory said you cut him near in half and even laughed about it! He was no threat. He’d never even held a real sword!’  
  
Sandor shook his head.  It took him a few moments to recall whom she spoke of and what had happened.  ‘I was Joffrey’s sworn shield,' he rasped in irritation, struggling to clear his wine addled thoughts. 'That butcher's boy attacked a prince of the blood!'  It was not one of his proudest moments, but he knew all too well what became of those who challenged the lions.  
  
‘That’s a lie!' Arya snapped. 'It was me. I hit Joffrey, and threw Lion’s Paw in the river! Mycah just ran away like I told him!’  
  
‘I heard it from royal lips. It’s not my place to question princes,’ Sandor argued, feeling annoyed at having to explain his actions to some snot-nosed little brat. ‘Your own sister, my betrothed, told the same tale when she stood before King Robert,’ he added.  
  
‘Sansa’s just a liar,’ Arya growled. ‘It wasn’t like she said--’ The wolf girl's expression faltered, shifting from fury to disbelief. ‘...Betrothed?’  
  
The scarred warrior realized his mistake a moment too late. He could hear the fat one stifling back a snicker, before muttering something in protest when the older one elbowed him in the ribs.  
  
‘Like her sweet sister, the wolf girl repeats everything she hears,' Sandor growled. 'Betrothed, yes!’  
  
‘You’re a monster and a liar,' Arya retorted in disgust, 'My sister would never marry the likes of you!’  
  
The wolf girl had the right of it, he knew, but he’d be damned if he let her know as much, or worse, that Sansa’s betrayal still hurt. ‘Because I hacked your little friend in two? I’ve killed a lot more than him, I promise you,' Sandor rasped.  'Think that makes me some kind of monster, do you? Well, maybe it does, but I’ve saved your sister’s life. The day the mob pulled her off her horse, I cut through them, and brought her back to the castle, else she would have gotten what Lollys Stokeworth got. And she sang for me,’ he said, leaning in, forcing the girl to instinctively step back. ‘You didn’t know that did you? Your sister sang me a pretty song and gave me two kisses as well,’ Sandor added, with a wolfish grin.  
  
Arya looked torn between horror and disbelief. ‘No, she didn’t! Now I know you’re lying! Sansa would never kiss anyone so ugly!’  
  
‘You don’t know half as much as you think you do,’ he growled, burying the sting that was the painful truth behind her words. ‘You boy, the fat one, get us some deadwood for a fire. Girl, get us some water. And you,' Sandor rasped, motioning to the taller one beside him, ‘Go with him.’ The boys cast Arya a wary glance. She gave them a nod, and soon her two companions were cautiously departing for the brush near to his impromptu camp. The Hound then turned his attentions to courser who stood beneath a large tree, lazily nibbling on some grass. Emptying a skin of fresh water for Stranger to drink, he then collected a bag of vegetables he had stolen from a distant field, along with the remaining meats of a deer he had caught a day prior.    
  
The wolf girl was not gone for long; neither were the two boys, Gendry, and Hot Pie, she seemed to call them. As Stranger drank his water, Gendry started a fire while Hot Pie prepared the last of Sandor’s hunt along with his stolen vegetables. Only Arya remained put, glaring at him from across the fires. He knew well enough to keep her blade near his person and his own sword even closer.  
  
Drawing a long pull from his wineskin, Sandor watched as the three would-be thieves ate their fill. He was not hungry, yet he ate, if for no other reason than to silence Hot Pie's insistent nagging. The boy seemed to take it as personal insult if anyone ever turned down his cooking, he learned. And even though he was as young as Arya, he clearly had a talent for cooking, making even the most basic essentials taste as though it were made in a royal kitchen.  
  
‘Didn’t you serve the King?’ Gendry asked as they finished the last of their midnight meal.  
  
‘I’m my own dog now. What of it?’ Sandor rasped.  
  
‘So, you were really going to marry Arry’s sister?’ Hot Pie asked. The chubby boy at least had the decency to keep the shock and disgust out of his voice. Sandor took another long drink of his wine. He just wanted to forget any of it ever happened.  
  
‘Of course not,' Arya cut in rolling her eyes. 'My sister was supposed to marry that lousy worm of a King!’  
  
‘Dogs don’t lie, girl,’ the Hound snapped back. It was true, during one of their secret meetings, Sansa had spoken of the future. At the time he had laughed at the very notion, teasing her for her fairy tale fancies. No high born princess ever married her dog. It was only after Sansa had taken off from their camp in the septry ruins, that Sandor realized just how much he wanted to believe in her foolish dreams.  
  
‘Prove it,’ Arya demanded. Sandor’s eyes fell to the deep blue ribbon that hung on the hilt of his blade.  
  
 _‘Will you accept my favour now? Or will you refuse me a second time my lord?’_  
  
Sandor could almost hear the music in Sansa’s voice, almost see her blushing smile when she had offered him the ribbon from her hair under the stars in the quiet of the godswood.  His words had caught in his throat to her innocent offer, leaving the scarred warrior capable of only a weak nod to mark his acceptance. With fingers so delicate, Sansa had tied the silken sash to the hilt of his sword. He watched on, his heart about ready to burst free from his chest. Then she looked up at him with those beautiful blue eyes and gave him a smile that could light up even the darkest of his nights.    
  
The silk ribbon was worn now. Frayed from wear, and bloodied from the battle of Blackwater Bay, he had hidden it amongst the few belongings he owned and cherished. On that fateful night, he had worn it on his blade; not for pride, but rather for strength and courage against the seven hells he was to face. It was her faith in him that had saved his life that night and he would not soon forget it. Even after their escape from King's Landing, Sandor continued to wear it; out of pride and the love he bore for the young woman. Now, it was all he had left of her, that and the memories of all that was not real. Even after her betrayal, the young warrior could not bring himself to do away with it, much to his shame.  
  
‘See? Your sweet sister’s hair ribbon. A favour, personally given,’ he growled.  
  
‘Her favourite ribbon,’ the girl murmured, staring at the tattered remains in disbelief. ‘You stole it from her!’ she concluded in accusation.  
  
‘Stupid, blind little wolf bitch, believe what you like. I saved her from the mob, and from the King’s wrath. Stole her away from King's Landing too,’ Sandor snapped.  
  
‘Fine then. Where is she now?’ Arya demanded, closing the distance between them. ‘Tell me where my sister is, Hound, and maybe I’ll let you live,’ she said grabbing her blade that lay at his feet and aiming at his throat. Sandor laughed at the she-wolf's blind courage. Drawing his own sword, the scarred warrior lazily placed it at her throat. Even in his current state of inebriation, both knew she stood no chance against him.  
  
‘Not so brave now,’ the Hound rasped in amusement, noting the girl's blade starting to waver. ‘Go on then, if you’re stupid enough to try-’  
  
‘Oh shut up!’ Arya shouted.  
  
‘That’s enough, both of you!’ Gendry interrupted in stern tones, forcing both to pause. Arya, not one to be outdone, demanded he not interfere, and soon Hot Pie cut in, trying to calm his agitated friends to no avail. Annoyed, Sandor gave a roar, forcing all three into silence.  
  
‘Now all of you, shut your mouths and eat your meals, or I’ll cut your tongues out myself,’ he rasped, drunkinly. The last of their meals was consumed in silence. Soon after, Sandor drained the last of his wine before succumbing to the sweet oblivion of sleep.  
  
The scarred warrior's dream was the same as it had been since the night Sansa had run off.  He would be surrounded in darkness, yet could sense the little bird was near, watching him from the shadows with her eyes of water. All around him, voices could be heard, mocking him, mocking her too. Above the din of voices he could hear her sweet voice, calling his name, pleading for him to save her.  But his hands would always be tied, and his steel, gone. Fury and dread would consume him as Sandor fought against his restraints, calling for Sansa while cursing her assailants, whose laughter was near deafening. Every night, his efforts would be to no avail, and every night, Sansa would be gone to be consumed by the darkness.  
  
The Hound woke in the black pitch of night, and the familiar pounding throb of a wretched hangover. The fresh scent of unearthed potatoes, and the tiny pins of light warned him something was terribly wrong.  He realized that his arms and wrists were tightly bound. A moment later, he felt something soft and warm hitting the side of his face. Beneath the potato sack, Sandor scowled biting back a curse. The whoresons were throwing dung at him.  
  
‘Here’s your new castle, dog! A li'l snug for the likes o’ you, but we’ll squeeze you in fine, never fret.’ A man’s voice mocked. ‘You’ll rot in them cages,’ he continued, shouting in loud tones. ‘The crows will be pickin' out your eyes while we’re spendin' all that good Lannister gold o’ yours! When they’re done, mayhap we’ll send what’s left o’ you to your bloody brother!’  
  
Sandor grew still upon hearing his captors words and the sound of their laughter. It felt too familiar, as though he had once experienced this before. Around him, he could hear Hot Pie’s panicked pleas, along with Arya’s warnings to be silent. All the while their captors continued to mock him while cheering their _good fortune_  in capturing the Lannister’s most loyal dog. Just then, amidst the clamour of mocking laughter and shouts, he thought he heard _her_ voice, so musical and familiar, calling his name just as she did in his dreams.  
  
Before he could react, he was forced to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance as the potato sack was torn off his head. Blinded by the mornings bright light, the giant warrior hesitated, uncertain of his footing. From behind, another pushed him forward causing him to nearly stumble and fall out of the cart that carried them. Sandor cursed loudly, struggling to break free of his captors, only to feel a sharp edge of a blade pressed against his back. Prodded onwards at sword point he entered the cavernous mouth of a large cave. Furious, he challenged the _whoresons_ to battle, before calling them cowards and thieves, until suddenly he heard the Little Bird’s voice, filled with relief and joy, calling out to him.  
  
‘Sandor! Thank the gods, I knew you would come for me!’  
  
Immediately he caught sight of Sansa, standing amongst a group of rag-tag warriors at the far end of the cave, her delicate hands firmly bound by braided rope. Stunned, Sandor stared at her in disbelief; the depths of his mistake painfully clear. The Little Bird had not flown away as he once thought; she had been captured and was now held hostage.  
  
His nightmares had been reality all along.


	4. Judge, Jury and Executioner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything about Sandor’s life always came back to his older brother Gregor; whether it was his face, their extinct family, or just about every other important moment of his life. This time was no different...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** All this belongs to GRRM. Please note that some of the lines in this chapter were/are taken directly from his books. This is due in part to the fact this chapter touches on canon scenes. As such (just to state the obvious)I claim nothing to be mine. It is entirely Mr. Martins!
> 
> **Beta Readers:** A huge thank you to **Littlebirdhound** for going over this tale! I am so grateful for all your help, advice and insight into this wonderful prompt!

Everything about Sandor’s life always came back to his older brother Gregor; whether it was his face, their extinct family, or just about every other important moment of his life. This time was no different. It was not enough that he was tired, hung-over (or perhaps still a bit drunk), and downright humiliated, but now he was being forced to stand trial for crimes he had never committed. Scowling, Sandor remained silent as Thoros droned on, naming the victims he was rumoured to have raped and killed. He had stolen many souls in his young life, but the scarred warrior knew these were not his victims; he may have been guilty of murder, but he was not guilty of rape. That title was better suited to his legendary brother: _The Mountain._   
  
‘Lay your dead children at some other door,’ he rasped in disgust.   
  
‘Do you deny that house Clegane was built upon dead children?' Thoros pressed on, 'I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne. By rights, your arms should bear two bloody infants in place of those ugly dogs.’   
  
Sandor bit his tongue. Those _ugly dogs_ were his grandfather’s favourite. They had names, they were loved, and they died to save a master who did not care a whit about them. The familiar rush of rage clouded his thoughts to the realization that even his grandfather’s memory was smeared by Gregor’s wretched legacy.   
  
‘Do you take me for my brother? Is being born a Clegane a crime?’ he growled in disgust. There was no answer for that statement.  
  
Sansa, ever the little bird, chirped sweet words in his defence, but to no avail. Sandor did not know whether to laugh or wretch. The young woman had painted a rather heroic image of _her_ Hound coming to her rescue like the knights of old. Only, he rode on a courser of black, not a steed of white, and wore armour not shining bright as the sun, but tarnished with dents, blood and mud. It was, as with all her notions, both epic and entirely absurd.   
  
The _honourable_ knights certainly were in agreement as they laughed and mocked the little bird, adding to Sandor’s growing rage. ‘Such noble men; kidnapping princesses and robbing broken dogs,’ he snarled.   
  
‘You stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you.’ Sandor gave a snort to the man’s statement. Killers charging a killer with murder; their hypocrisy was too much to bear.   
  
‘But he murdered Mycah!' Arya cried out. 'I know he did! Jory said so!’   
  
‘Arya, it was not his fault!' Sansa cut in. 'The queen and Joffrey made him do it!’   
  
The Little Bird had the right of it. Had Sandor had his way, that fateful night would have ended without bloodshed.   
  
The sisters shouted their arguments while Ser Beric Dondarrion continued whatever nonsense he was spouting. Other men joined in; some spat out their accusations, while others attempted to silence the fighting girls.   
  
‘Fight me, kill me, or set me free!' Sandor bellowed. 'Make up your bloody minds and get on with it already!’ The cave fell as silent as a tomb.  
  
‘Prove your innocence with a blade, Clegane, and you shall be free to go,’ Beric concluded, breaking the heavy silence.   
  
‘So, who will it be?’ Sandor laughed, challenging his captors as they cut him from his restaints. ‘I’ll need sword and armour.' They had promised him a sword; his armour was another matter. ‘My innocence against your breastplate. Is that the way of it?’ he balked.   
  
Dondarrion had his squire remove his breastplate, as to ensure an equal fight. Beneath his tunic, the man’s chest and flesh was rotted and withered like a corpse. The Stranger had come for him, yet, Dondarrion remained trapped within his body; caught between this world and the veil beyond.   
  
As a man grown, he put little credence in his grandparents' tall tales of elemental demons and dark magic, but staring at the warrior, he immediately recalled stories that terrified him as a boy. A chill ran down his spine at the memory, but he refused to show his fear.   
  
‘Does a dog have honour?’ Thoros asked, handing Sandor a sword belt. The old priest continued to bleat, marking him a kidnapper, a rapist, and a butcher of children. Sansa’s eyes shone with tears as she watched him intently. Another knight, turned thief, presented him with his shield and Sandor stepped forward ready to fight, but the priest would have none of it.   
  
‘First we pray,’ he intoned, turning towards the fire.   
  
The men uttered their prayers to their fire god, but it was the murmured prayer of another that Sandor heard. He never forgot Sansa’s voice; so musical and sweet. She was praying to the old gods for his protection, whispering words in a dialect common to those of the North. He could not recall the last time anyone had prayed for his safety. Had he believed in the gods, he might have been humbled, instead he felt a rush of courage where, moments ago, trepidation remained.  
  
‘This cave is dark too, but I’m the terror here,' Sandor rasped, taking a familiar battle stance, 'I hope your god’s a sweet one, Dondarrion. You’re going to meet him shortly.'  
  
The knight drew his sword across the palm of his left hand, his blood became flame. Sandor stared in horror as fire enveloped the blade. ‘Burn in seven hells. You, and Thoros too!’ he growled, his knuckles white from the strength of his grip on his sword. In the shadows, the scarred warrior noted Sansa standing alone, poised and watchful. In another time, he might have laughed at his situation; it was all playing out like a badly written fairy tale. Only in this _tale_ , it was the ugly beast who played the _hero,_ while the ‘noble’ knights acted the villains.   
  
There was no time for further musings, for the fire knight was older and far more experienced than Sandor cared to admit. The harder he fought the more vicious Dondarrion’s own attack became. The fires of undead knight’s blade danced closer to his scarred face, and the young man found it increasingly difficult to remain focussed. Only the familiar silk of Sansa’s tattered ribbon, now entangled around his wrist gave him the courage to continue the fight. Through her favour, Sansa’s prayers were given physical form, or so it felt to the frightened Hound.   
  
The rotting knight attacked with a fury that came only with righteous vengeance. In his deluded mind, the undead warrior truly believed himself the hero, sent to vanquish one of the _devil’s_ dogs. Yet despite his fear and self-loathing, Sandor knew what would become of Sansa should he perish. Dondarrion fought in the name of justice. The Hound, however, drew his blade for the safety and freedom of an innocent woman.  
  
Driven by fear and rage Sandor unleashed his attacks with a desperation that bordered on hysteria. Dodging the undead knight’s attacks, Sandor could almost feel the heavy weight of his brother’s hands on his shoulders, and hear the giant’s heavy breath in his ears. Wine sweat poured from his skin while his hands began to shake, his rage giving way to exhaustion and fear. His ferocious attempts to slow the scarecrow knight were to no avail. The harder he fought, the more fierce the retaliation. Sandor could feel the hells fires of Dondarrion’s sword licking at his exposed skin whenever the knight struck hard against his own blade of steel. Around him the men shouted and jeered, cheering on their supposed hero who sought to destroy him. In the end, not even Sansa’s sweet prayers or her tattered favour could bury the growing dread felt, as flames threatened to consume him once more.   
  
Distracted by his fear and weakened with exhaustion, Sandor was unprepared for the man’s feint. Fortunately, his shield blocked the attack just in time, colliding with the knight’s fiery blade with such force that it splintered upon impact. Dropping to one knee, Sandor succumbed to instinct as he struck back hard before struggling back to his feet. A breath too late, and it would have been the end. Dondarrion stepped back, and for a brief moment the young fighter thought he had gained ground. Only then did he feel the familiar searing white hot heat burning at his flesh. His shield burned bright with hells fires of orange and yellow.   
  
Horrified to the sight, he screamed a curse as he frantically tried to rid the flames. Much of the shield shattered from the force of his attacks, yet some remained burning through the leather that was strapped to his forearm. The more he struggled to put out the fire, the worse the flames became, both his tunic sleeve and the flesh beneath it were soon devoured. Dondarrion continued his merciless onslaught; forcing Sandor back until the young warrior was trapped between the inferno of the fire pits and the knight’s sword of flames. Surrounded by the fires of the seven hells, or so it felt, and consumed by white hot pain of his flesh being devoured by his smouldering shield, Sandor’s succumbed to his fears; the horrors of his past.   
  
No longer capable of registering his surroundings, Sandor saw not the cave, but the burning hells that was the battle of Blackwater Bay. Shadows within the cave became the phantoms of his troops; desperate young men who had been consumed in wildfire. While the flames from the camp fires behind him, cast a strange light on the knights who watched and cheered for their _hero of light._ They called for the Hound’s demise and cursed his name, completing the visage of his personal seven hells; his childhood nightmares given physical form. Even Dondarrion now towered over him, far larger and more muscled than the fire knight had any right to be; vicious and cold, too.   
  
Lost to the horrors of his past, Sandor saw the demon brother who destroyed his family, his life, and his dreams. Consumed with fear and desperation, the Hound fought Gregor’s phantom while his demonic minions cheered on, chanting, 'Guilty, guilty, guilty!'   
  
He could no longer see his Sansa in the shadows, but Sandor knew his little bird was near and in the dark he could almost hear her whispering words, the words that had changed his world forever.  
  
 _'There is more to you, than just the Hound. It is a shame that even you cannot see it._   
  
Gripping his sword with both hands, Sandor called upon the last of his courage. With a mighty roar, he struck the undead knight with such force that the sword of fire was shattered into two parts. The knight fell to the ground, his body neatly cleaved from shoulder to breastbone.   
  
Dropping his sword, Sandor tore off the last of the burning shield from his burning flesh before dropping to the cold soil, a desperate attempt to stop the fires that burned both tunic and skin. The pain, white-hot and merciless, consumed his every thought; reality and nightmare had become one and the same. Victory was his, but the fallen warrior knew nothing save terror and pain.   
  
‘Please,’ he rasped, holding his arm. ‘I’m burned. Help me. Someone. Help me. Please!’ Sandor pleaded as tears streamed down his cheeks. Squeezing his eyes shut as he fought back the urge to scream in pain. He refused to give his brother the pleasure. This time, there was no maester, no grandfather who came to his aid; it was another.  
  
‘Arya, get some water, and some weed of the snake. Be quick about it, please! You, Ser, I am in need of your dagger…’  
  
In the back of his tumult of thoughts, Sandor thought he heard Sansa’s musical voice calling for help. He did not dare open his eyes for fear it was all imagined; a desperate dream that had no place in this harsh reality. Even the cooling touch of her fingers against the scars on his cheek could not convince him that it was real.   
  
‘My dearest Sandor.’ Her voice whispered as water splashed against his fevered brow. He could feel hands turning him on his side so as to better expose his fresh wounds, he assumed. As his good cheek was laid against a silken cloth he could smell the scent of fresh mud, lemon and wildflowers. It did not bury the pungent stench of burning flesh, but it dulled it enough to ease a little of his terror.   
  
He could faintly hear Sansa continue to chirp sweet words, as her fingers gently rubbed a soothing ointment on his wounds. Opening his bloodshot eyes, Sandor gazed up at her, covered in mud, scratches, and ash. The princess was a mess, but he had never seen her look more beautiful. Sandor reached out with his burned hand to touch her porcelain cheek, desperate to know she was real, and not a fevered dream. From the corner of his eyes he could see a piece of burned skin slough off his arm. Horror gripped Sandor’s heart just as the pain of his wounds reached a blinding crescendo. Unconsciousness immediately followed.   
  
His last memories were of feather light kisses, and whispered words of love. No one could know that it healed him more than any amount of snake weed or ice water.


	5. Prelude to a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa attempts to clear tensions between them, and Sandor has a confession to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM.**
> 
> Also a reminder in this tale Sansa is 14 to Sandor's 17 years of age.

Since parting ways with the Brotherhood without Banners Sandor did all he could to keep distance from Sansa. Not for lack of desiring her company, rather out of shame and guilt at his doubts and unfounded accusations felt in her absence. Sansa ever the determined little bird would have none of it. At first her gestures were subtle; freshly picked berries left by his bed roll, her cloak lying atop of him when the night chill left frost on the grass. She would even sneak a fresh apple or two, stolen from a nearby orchard for his courser Stranger, who was oddly happy to be spoiled by the northern princess. 

If it had been her intent to assure him that he was still every bit her ‘Florian’ Sansa had failed. Her innocent gestures of affection only added to his already guilty conscience. When that did not have the desired effect, his Little Bird grew more aggressive, as aggressive as a proper young lady would ever allow herself to be.

Tonight her sister Arya along with her fellow ‘pack members’, Hot Pie and Gendry were distracted with food, camp and fighting amongst themselves. Had it not been for Sansa’s quick thinking and her clever way with words, Sandor was certain they would have all remained prisoners of the _noble_ Brotherhood. Nonetheless, she not only convinced them to release her sister and friends but she even managed to gain them a gentle steed as well. 

Sandor could not have asked for a more wretched task than attempting to spark a fire. Yet he worked the flint as best he could cursing rather than praying, that the gods would just let the kindling catch fire. Had he not been so distracted by his dreaded task the scarred warrior might have heard Sansa’s approach. Her presence was not noted until her fingers carefully slipped over his hands causing him to still in mid-action. Meeting his gaze the princess cast a sad smile before gently taking the flints from him. ‘Let me tend to the fire,’ she said in a voice so gentle. 

‘Enough with the games girl, out with it,’ Sandor snarled. Sansa shrank back. To her credit she did not move away from where she sat by side on the old log. Her silence added to his guilt. Anger, fury, and hate he could handle with ease. Kindness, forgiveness and mercy were still new to him, leaving the young warrior out of sorts and uncertain how to respond.

‘I know not what you speak of my lord, but I beg your pardons for the offence I clearly have caused you,’ she began.

‘Bugger your pardons girl I’m no Lannister. Speak true and let’s be done with it,’ Sandor snapped. In the moonlight he could see her blue eyes filled with unshed tears. The anger he once readily drew upon had evaporated into guilt. He had once more made a mess of things.

‘Ever since you saved me from Brotherhood you have been avoiding me. The only time you ever let me near you is to tend to your wounds. Whatever it is that I have done to anger you Sandor, I am truly sorry. I never meant for this to happen. They found me tending to the fire and preparing the bedrolls in our camp,’ she pressed on. ‘I begged them to leave me be. I warned them that you would return; that they would face your wrath for their poor treatment. But they believed it was you who kidnapped me. When I resisted, the man with the yellow cloak---Lem was his name, hit me with the flat of his blade.’ Sandor’s jaw clenched; his knuckles turning white to the strength of his clenched fists. In silence, he swore to kill Lem and all the others for what they had done to his little bird. 

‘When I woke I was in the cave. I was bound unable to move. I tried to reason with them. I told them you were my betrothed. I even showed them your white cloak--they mocked me for it,’ Sansa continued to prattle on, hoping to assure him of her innocence. It was not necessary, Sandor already knew, and had known the moment he had set eyes upon her in the darkened cave. All he wanted was to forget it ever happened, or at least receive his just punishment and be done with it. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to silence the princess. Not even his guilt could deny him the sweet sound of her voice, or the warmth of her body seated so near to him. 

‘I know what you must have thought but I swear on the gods, the old and the new, I didn’t run away. They captured me, forced me to cook for them, as well as darn their tunics and at times clean their clothes. I prayed day and night for your return, for you to save me like Florian—‘

‘I’m not your bloody Florian,’ Sandor cut in unable to remain silent any longer. ‘Seven hells I didn’t even try to save you girl. Thought you ran away because I cut your damned hair. So I drank to forget, then I drank to remember. When that didn’t work I drank to be rid of the dreams.’ The confession came easier than expected. He took no solace in it. ‘Drunk as a dog when your wolf sister and her pack found me. Was sleeping off the wine when we were captured. So no little bird, I’m no hero, no Florian, just a damned fool with a sword.’ 

Sandor waited with dread for the inevitable; scorn, disgust and certain rejection. There was no disgust in the princess’ eyes, no anger either. Her evident sorrow and disappointment more than made up for it. 

With all the grace and mercy of the Maiden Sansa placed a hand on either side of his cheeks, drawing his attentions solely to her. Sandor could see the tears that shone on her porcelain cheeks. ‘My dearest Sandor,’ she gently pleaded. ‘Do you know me so little that you would believe I would behave in such a treacherous manner? It hurts me deeply to know you have such a low opinion of my feelings for you.’ 

In another time Sandor might have pleaded forgiveness, and begged Sansa for her pardons. He might have bowed on one knee to kiss her hand, and swear fealty to her like the knights she loved so well. But life had robbed him of such innocence and dreams. Leaving him unable to express what weighed so heavily on his heart. How could he possibly explain that she made him believe in the Maiden, in hope, and dreams once forgotten? That to lose her would be to lose his world entire. But Sandor was no poet, and certainly no bard. What truths he did understand he did not dare admit out loud. Such vulnerability and weakness could not be afforded, so he believed.

‘Little Bird,’ he whispered, gently removing her hands from his cheeks, as he glanced away no longer able to meet her gaze. A breath later Sandor felt the weight of her head resting on his shoulder. Finding courage in the simple gesture the scarred warrior carefully wrapped his bandaged arm around her small waist. The warmth of her body was welcomed in the cold of evening; her contented sigh was further enjoyed.

‘The Brotherhood spoke of a monastery in the Quiet Isles. I believe they do trade with them from time to time,’ Sansa murmured after a time, drawing Sandor’s attention back to the present. 

Furrowing a brow he studied her a moment, uncertain what to make of the strange statement. ‘What of it?’ he asked. Nuzzling close, Sansa slipped her fingers into his good hand, giving it a squeeze. The fire she had started had grown into a decent flame. Bright enough to make out her features in its warm glow. How he wanted to taste her lips again, as he had so long ago that night of Black Water Bay. 

‘Let us go there, so that we may be married,’ she tittered, wearing a smile so beautiful that Sandor was certain had he been a bard, a song would have been written of it.

In stunned silence he stared at her uncertain that he correctly heard her. In the past they rarely discussed anything beyond the immediate present as their dire situation permitted them little hope of a long term future. In truth he never really allowed himself to truly consider such a possibility, though in moments of weakness and wine he often would dream of it. He never imagined that he would be staring into Sansa’s eyes of blue, hearing her speak of such things with such sincerity or hope.

Once as a boy Sandor dreamed of a cloak of white, a blade worthy of its name and a maiden fair to call his own. As a man grown, he dreamed of his brother’s blood, his head on a spike a place of his own to rest his head. Yet here he was the first un-knighted warrior to wear the legendary white of a Kingsguard. His blade had no name but it was feared throughout the land, and now just maybe…Sandor buried the thought, it was just too sweet, too perfect to be real. Surely his little bird spoke in jest.

‘Such a pretty liar,’ Sandor said shaking his head in disbelief. The fact she was even willing to consider such a notion was enough for him. It gave him hope that perhaps one day…

Sansa however, was clearly not amused. Furrowing her brow she released her grip from his hand, only to once more cup his cheeks between her silken fingers. ‘Sandor Clegane. I may be your little bird, but I am every bit a wolf,’ she said, as a shy smile played on her full lips. _And wolves, like dogs, do not lie,_ her blue eyes seemed to say as his little bird leaned in to kiss him full on his scarred mouth. 

This time the young warrior was ready, though he knew not how to fully respond. Sansa too had little experience, much to his relief. Uncertain how to share a proper kiss, their first attempts proved awkward ending with them bumped noses and shy giggles from the princess. Despite the failed attempt Sandor could not resist a second attempt. This time, to his immense relief, it was met with success. 

Her lips were sweet, soft and entirely intoxicating. She tasted like the berries she had enjoyed earlier that evening, while her hair smelled of the wildflowers she wore. Tentatively she parted her lips, encouraging him to deep their chaste kisses. What little Sandor knew of such things he had heard solely through the gossip spoken by foolish ladies whose heads had been filled with fairy tales. Once he used to mock such silly notions. How wrong he had been! With a twinge of fear and far more elation he accepted her silent invitation. Sansa murmured a soft moan as she gently responded. The realization that she truly desired him sent shivers down his spine; it was all he could do to remain in control of himself. 

Drawing Sansa closer into his arms the warrior gave a throaty growl. Soon her own fingers were wrapped around him, as her body pressed flush to his form. Reality had slipped away, leaving only the warmth of Sansa’s body against his own; the taste of her lips, her teeth, her tongue. Drowning in the bliss of new senses once denied him the scarred warrior eagerly drew her onto his lap. With a gasp of surprise and another shy giggle, she nuzzled her nose to his before leaning to steal another passionate kisses. 

In her embrace Sandor found forgiveness, in her kiss he found a love he had never known. Growing ever more confident, the young warrior began to trail kisses down her throat, relishing the taste of his Little Bird's skin against his scarred lips. As with great care his hands began to explore the curves of her body. No fairy tale dream or bottle of fine Dornish sour was more heady or wondrous. 

Suddenly Sansa pulled away slipping from his lap back onto the log they had been sitting on; her eyes wide with shock and surprise. ‘Arya? What are—No!’ she gasped. 

Sandor never had a chance to register his confusion as a sharp pain tore through the back of his head causing stars to dance behind his eyes just before inky blackness consumed him whole.


	6. A Pack To Call His Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor struggles to ease Sansa's fears for her sister and their future after the loss of her Mother and brother.

Sandor did not know what to expect of the Little Bird or her wild wolf sister when their attempts to enter the Frey’s castle went foul. The hopeful reunion between the Stark siblings and their lady mother had turned into a bloody slaughter. The local farmers and merchants would come to call it; ‘The Red Wedding’ and Sandor Clegane could not have agreed more. 

Arya, driven as always, wanted inside no matter the cost. Gendry and Hot Pie did all they could to slow her down, to ensure she would not killed; it was to no avail. Quick to act, Sandor rendered her unconscious with the butt of an axe. It was the only way to ensure Arya would not run back to her mother and brother thus getting herself slaughtered in the process. The scarred warrior took no pleasure in returning the wolf girl’s favour of a few weeks past. He felt only concern for the safety Sansa and perhaps the others too. Whether Arya liked it or not, he was not about to let her get them all killed simply because she needed to play hero. 

Sansa by contrast, had been unresponsive to all that she had witnessed. The young woman neither moved, nor spoke. He could only watch in concern, as the colour drained from her porcelain features; silent tears, spilling down her cheeks. 

When Arya regained consciousness, her temperament had grown quiet and dangerous. Hot Pie, and Gendry, in their own awkward way gave the wolf-girl what comfort they could. Sansa, by contrast, pretended nothing was wrong. Ever the perfect little lady she busied herself with trivial tasks, turning her attentions to the next course of action, departing for the Vale. To anyone else she might have appeared indifferent, but Sandor knew better. She was wearing the same mask she always wore when in the presence of King Joffrey, his Queen Regent Mother and just about everyone else in the Lion’s court. Only in the darkness of night, long after Arya had whispered her prayer to the Stranger and everyone else had drifted to fitful sleep did Sansa silently mourn. Her silent sobs and whispered prayers weighed heavy on Sandor’s mind. As much as he wanted to comfort her, the young warrior knew that Sansa had endured far too much to be patronized with empty platitudes of peace and the heavens. Yet for all his desire to hold her near, to ease her pain Sandor was not yet ready to openly show his affections, not without Sansa’s initiation and unspoken assurance that it was acceptable.

Mindful of the sleeping wolf and her fellow pack members Sandor quietly approached the young woman. With great care he gently placed his blanket over her form, as there was a chill in the air. Breathing a heavy sigh he took his seat by her side. He knew he had to say something, but no words would ever bring back all that she had lost. It had not been a full day, yet it felt as though many moons had passed since learning of the Freys treachery.

‘This thing about your Mother and your Brother,’ he began, the words sounding awkward even to his ears. Sansa immediately sat up; startled by the low timber of his voice. Collecting herself the young woman stared up to the night sky; her silhouette a perfect shadow against a backdrop of trees and a blanket of stars. If he was another man Sandor would have admired the beauty of the moment, for at another time it might have been something straight out of a song. He felt no joy in this moment either, only fear and concern. 

‘They’re dead. I know,’ Sansa’s musical voice broke the heavy silence. ‘I dreamt of Robb and Greywind joining Lady. My Mother--’ her blue eyes grew wide with terror as her hand fluttered to her mouth muffling back a sob. Sandor briefly faltered, uncertain how to respond. It was then he recalled how Sansa had comforted him that fateful night in Kings Landing. No empty pretty words, only sincere action. A gesture he could respect, one she would appreciate. Drawing the little bird close to him Sandor kissed her brow, as she silently wept, her shoulders shaking to her quiet sobs. Running his fingers through her shorn matted hair he held her near hoping that in some small way he could ease a little of her suffering.

As Sansa’s tears dried she slipped her fingers into Sandor’s, giving his calloused fingers a squeeze. Though it was clear that she was still troubled there was clarity in her gaze that had not been seen since they escaped the Freys slaughter. 

‘Where do we go from here? Winterfell lays in ruin, our parents and brothers are either dead or lost. The Vale is so far from here and we have no coin, no food, and winter is coming. What are we going to do?’ she lamented. When she was Joffrey’s battered doll, a glorified prisoner of the Lannisters, the Little Bird was always hopeful, finding joy and good in every situation, no matter how grim or dark. It was not like her to be so hopeless or lost. If she could no longer look to the future, what chance did they have? 

‘We start over,’ he said. Sansa stared at him in disbelief, as though he had suggested they return to Kingslanding. After all she had endured, been through and experienced, she was afraid of beginning a new life. ‘Does that frighten you so much?’ he asked clearly baffled by her fears. ‘That’s life for you. Happily ever after only exists in songs. So take what you can and move on. That’s all you can do. No words, no pretty fairy tales will bring back your Lady mother, your Lord Father or your Kingly brother,’ he rasped uncertain what more to say. He wanted to promise her the kingdoms, to swear that one day she would return to Winterfell, to find her home just as she remembered it. It was not his promise to make. 

‘I know you are right, it just does not make it any easier to bear,’ she admitted in sorrowful tones. ‘I’m not worried about myself; with you by my side I can face the seven hells and more. It is for my dear sister I fear. There is no joy in her laughter, no happiness in her eyes. She’s consumed with vengeance and death. She is too young to be so bitter. This is not the life I want for her.’ Her words left him torn between cynicism and the romantic idealism of his childhood. Sansa, every bit a true fairy tale maiden always placed the well-being of others over herself.

‘Nothing to fear, Little Bird. The wolf girl has you, and those two there. You’re her pack, she’d say,’ he said with a nod to the two boys who were snoring softly on either side of Arya’s now empty bedroll. Frowning, Sandor scanned the camp searching for any sign of the wolf girl who was sleeping only moments ago. To his grudging relief, he soon caught sight of Arya’s shadowed form angrily attacking a large tree with a sharpened stick. ‘She’s not alone, not anymore. She’ll be fine and so will you,’ he adding wanting to assure her. Sansa furrowed her brow as she breathed a soft sigh before resting her head against his shoulder.

‘I truly hope so. She is so young and has been through so much. I pray the gods, the old and the new that one day she may know peace from all of this suffering,’ she said. Her eyes drifted to Arya who was violently fighting an imaginary villain with a sharpened stick a short distance away from the dying camp fire. 

Sansa glanced back up at him. ‘She may never admit it, but you are a member of her pack too,’ she murmured meeting his gaze. 

‘Bugger that. The wolf girl would bloody well kill me in my sleep if she knew. She already knocked me off my arse for kissing you,’ Sandor rasped.

‘That is behind you both now,’ Sansa noted. Since Arya’s unexpected attack she had tried to defend him to her disbelieving sister who was entirely unimpressed. For the next few days Sandor could do or say nothing without the wolf cub glaring, scowling or insulting him at every turn. Only after an intense spar and Sansa’s intervention did the two reach a grudging truce. ‘It is as you say, we are all that she has left now,’ she gently added giving his hand another squeeze. Sandor breathed a heavy sigh as he watched the wolf girl do a particularly extravagant attack on a bush. Arya was the Little Bird’s sister, and if Sansa’s dream were to come to pass, the brat would one day be his good sister as well. 

Falling silent, the young couple remained where they sat watching the fading campfire, and holding each other near. For a time it seemed as though everything was right with the world, until Sansa gently disentangled herself from his arms. ‘Thank you, my love for everything,’ she whispered. In her eyes the warrior saw emotions he still could not fathom ever being directed at him. ‘I want nothing more than to remain here, but-my sister needs me, more than I think she realizes,’ Sansa said, her gaze drifting to where her sister remained violently attacking bushes and trees a short distance away from the campfire. With a gentle kiss on his scarred lips and whispered words of love in his ears the princess slipped away to join her sister’s side.

The next time Sandor set eyes on his little bird it was morning and she was watching over the wolf-girl whom had long since fallen asleep on her lap. The exhaustion was evident in the drooping of her shoulders and the weariness of her fingers that continued to gently brush Arya’s tatty brown hair.

‘She sleeping?’ Sandor asked as he cautiously approached. He half expected the girl to open her eyes and growl insults at him like she always did. 

Meeting his gaze Sansa gave a tired, sad smile. ‘I think so,’ she gently answered. With her free hand she motioned Sandor to have a seat next to her. Joining her on the old fallen log the large warrior instinctively slipped an arm around her waist drawing her closer to him. 

Noting Hot Pie sleeping in his bed roll at her feet and Gendry a short ways away Sandor raised a brow in amusement. ‘New members of your pack?’ he rasped.

Her eyes drifted to their sleeping forms; her expression softened. ‘They’re your pack too, remember?’ Sansa noted with a hint of a smile. With that statement, she gave him a chaste kiss on his scarred mouth. 

Feeling his spirits lift, the scarred warrior studied the ragtag group at his feet and the beauty he now held near. They were a long way from safety, or any place they could call home. They had no coin, no allies, and no chance at a secure future. He also knew only time could truly heal the Little Bird and her wolf sister of their great loss. 

_A pack looks out for their own,_ his grandfather’s words suddenly played in Sandor’s mind filling him with a sense of guarded hope and heavy responsibility. Sansa had the right of it they were his family now. Whatever was to come, he would stop at nothing until he had done right by them. 

For reasons he could not explain the realization made the young man smile.


	7. An Unexpected Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has a dangerous encounter with the past, Arya retrieves what was once lost and Sansa reveals even little birds can be deadly when crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM. This includes the quotes that were taken directly from the books due to the re-enactment of this particular scene.**

They were half starved, exhausted and road weary when they arrived at the old inn. Sansa, ever the little bird, strived to remain positive, lifting everyone’s spirits with tall tales and pretty songs. Even Arya could not resist her big sister’s hopeful words. Surely, their aunt Lysa would take them in and aid them in finding their lost brothers, she would tell them. Sandor however, had no such illusions. He had heard enough of the woman from court gossip to know Lysa had as much in common with her lady mother as Sansa had with Arya. He had enough good sense to speak none of it.

Setting his eyes on the clean bones of what had once been a woman Sandor knew that they should have turned tail and left. The young warrior also knew that if Sansa and the wolf girl did not get food in their bellies and soon they would have far worse problems to worry about than the possible company within. He could see from the faces of his companions they felt as uneasy about this place as he did. 

‘We don’t want to go in,’ Arya blurted out, breaking the heavy silence. ‘There might be ghosts.’ Sandor stared at her in disbelief. Of all the things that could have frightened the wolf girl it were phantoms. He cast a glance to the others, Hot Pie looked just as frightened, and Gendry too was visibly unsettled his eyes focused on the bones that danced in the wind. Only Sansa seemed unfazed by the sight; a silent reminder of all she had endured at the hands of the lions. 

‘You know how long it’s been since I had a cup of wine?’ he said stepping off his saddle. It was a weak attempt at lightening the mood. Turning his attentions to his betrothed he helped Sansa step down from Stranger. His fingers lingered around her petite waist longer than considered proper. To his immense relief Sansa leaned into his touch a hint of a smile on her lips.

‘Forget the wine, what about food?’ Hot Pie intoned. Gendry nodded his agreement. 

‘What if they know you?’ Arya pressed on. ‘They might take us captive!’ she added in concern.

‘She’s right. If we’re recognized, we may be captured again,’ Sansa warned. 

‘Let them try,’ Sandor growled feeling his irritation grow. They were starving, and in desperate need of rest from their long journey on the road. Drawing his blade the scarred warrior gave Gendry a nod, a signal for the young man to follow his lead. Sansa reached out to give his hand a squeeze. In her touch the scarred warrior found a sense of peace. 

Upon entering the inn the rag tag group were immediately greeted with sudden silence. It took the warrior but a fleeting moment to discover why. A chill ran down Sandor’s spine to the sight of the soldiers. They were Gregor’s men every last one of them. To his immense relief his brother was nowhere to be seen. 

‘Looking for your brother Sandor?’ Polliver taunted taking pause in the attentions he was giving some local whore. 

‘Looking for a cup of wine, Inn keep a flagon of red. Bring us some food and ale too,’ he barked tossing what coppers they had on the floor. He was not in the mood for games, or mockery. 

‘I don’t want no trouble, Ser,’ the inn keep said.

‘Then don’t call me Ser,’ Sandor snapped. The man stood froze for a moment before giving a nod and running off like a mouse.

‘Gods it’s them,’ Hot Pie breathed to Gendry who hissed at him to be quiet. Sandor cast Arya a questioning look; the girl paid him no mind. She was staring at the Tickler as though he were the only man in the room. Sansa quietly joined his side. He would never admit it, but her presence held a silent assurance that no words could embody. 

Sandor’s eyes flickered to his betrothed, then to the tattered silken favour that hung from his sword. He knew what these men were capable of doing, and immediately feared for his Little Bird. His fingers tightened around the pommel of his sword; he would rot in the seven hells before allowing anything to happen to her. 

A young squire who sat between the two fighters began to spout insults at Sandor calling him a puppy and a craven. The scarred warrior scowled but refused to take the bait. The pimpled, skinny boy was hardly worth the effort. Fortunately, his colleague, a man named Polliver, was quick to step in to silence the obnoxious drunken boy. The bearded fighter apologized, after a fashion, for the squire’s bold statements. Not to be outdone, the boy began to continue his mocking when the second fighter known as the Tickler put a quick end to it grabbing the squire sharply by the ear. The brat cried out in pain but immediately fell silent.

The Inn keep soon returned carrying a flagon of wine, and a pitcher of ale to go with mugs a serving girl had set on the table moments earlier. The servant was behind him carrying plates that had something that might be considered food. Fortunately for the Inn keep they were just too starved to care.

‘Now you can pour,’ Sandor barked. ‘Best pick up those coppers too, it’s the only coin you like to see today,’ he warned. Sansa cast him a disapproving look but the Hound ignored it. In this company it was best to maintain the cold mask, if only to ensure the men would leave them be. The inn keep poured him a mug of wine and Sandor quickly drained it in a single swallow. It was terrible by most standards, but it was wet and it was sour so he made do.

‘We’ll pay when we’re done drinking,’ Polliver intoned.

‘When you’re done drinking you’ll tickle the inn keep to see where he keeps his gold. The way you always do,’ Sandor retorted in dry tones. This was not the sort of company he wanted to keep and he knew this visit would end badly; with such men it always did. 

‘We should leave,’ Sansa whispered. The sentiment was shared by all as soon everyone in the inn were making a hasty retreat, leaving only Sandor’s rag tag group and Gregor’s henchmen. 

‘If your looking for Ser, you come too late,’ Polliver said. ‘He was at Harrenhal, but now he’s not. The queen sent for him. King Joffrey’s dead you know,’ he added in after-thought. ‘Poisoned at his own wedding feast.’

It was hardly a surprise to the scarred warrior, the only surprise he felt was the realization it had taken them so long to do it. ‘So much for my brave brothers of the Kingsguard,’ Sandor said in disgust before draining a second mug of the sour red wine. ‘Who killed him?’ 

Beneath the table he felt Sansa’s hand grabbing at his fingers. Her expression was unreadable. Arya, who sat beside them, was examining her plate of food with sudden fascination. Her two companions, who sat across from them, did not even bother trying to hide their interest. 

‘The Imp its thought. Cersei means to have his head,’ said Polliver. ‘But most claim it was the northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard during the battle of Black Water Bay she changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat and flew out the tower window. Not before cursing him with a spell that would kill him on the day of his wedding. Something to do with avenging her family.’ 

Sansa grip around his hand, tightened to the point it threatened to cut off circulation. For one so dainty, she had the strength of a bear. From the corner of his eyes he could see Arya watching him intently gauging his reaction while her friends busied themselves with the food, mimicking her fascination of moments ago. Sandor knew better than to show concern instead he did what he always did in the past. Grabbing the heavy flagon he took a long swig, feigning indifference.

‘The queen ought to dip him in wildfire and cook him. Or tickle him till the moon turns black,’ he said before taking another long drink. He pretended not to notice Sansa’s concerned looks, it was best to maintain the illusion that he had not changed since they last saw him. Having had about enough of this conversation the Hound took to changing the topic, it did little good.

‘So Gregor took Harrenhal?’ asked Sandor. 

Before Polliver had a chance to speak the Tickler cut in, his eyes lingering far too long on Sansa’s figure. ‘Aren’t you a pretty girl,’ said Tickler. ‘Honey sweet,’ he grinned, licking his lips. ‘What’s the likes of you doing with the Hound?’ 

Sandor’s hand instinctively slipped to the pommel of his sword. ‘If we wanted you to know we would have told you,’ he growled. 

‘Are there ships at the Saltpans?’ Arya asked, eager to steer the conversation away from her sister. Loathed though he was to admit it, Sandor felt a twinge of gratitude at the wolf girl’s attempts. 

‘How should I know? The traders are back at Maidenpool I heard,’ Polliver answered. Only then did the older fighter take note of Sansa. Despite her short matted hair, muddied skin and tattered gown she still carried herself with an air of nobility that could not be readily ignored. What have once been in her favour had become her undoing. 

‘Seven hells, if it’s not the little witch! Half the gold of Casterly Rock is promised for your head!’ he exclaimed. 

‘Ser will be most pleased. Return you and that pretty witch back to Harrenhal with us, Sandor. I bet he’d like that. Or Kingslanding…’ The Tickler said as he sprung to his feet. 

Glaring at the men in disgust Sandor spat. ‘Bugger that. Bugger him. Bugger you.’ The Tickler appeared nonplussed but the scarred warrior knew him well enough to know what was coming. Swiftly he rose to his feel just in time to feel the man’s blade kiss his ribs before lodging itself in the far side of the room. Sansa and Arya having sensed the impending danger had already moved away from the men. Hot Pie gave a shout in shock but was soon silenced by Gendry who pushed the chubby boy out of range of the clashing swords. Neither girl made any sound.

The Hound laughed, feeling more in his element than he had since the Battle of Black Water Bay. ‘I was hoping you’d do something stupid!’ he mocked. Drawing his sword he knocked one of Polliver’s blades out of his hands as he did so. 

Immediately chaos enveloped the room. Arya threw one of the heavy mugs at the pimpled squire hitting him square in the face. Gendry and Hot Pie soon threw their plates at the Tickler, who dodged their attacks with ease. Unfortunately for him, the Little Bird had snuck behind; with the stone flagon in hand she hit the Tickler firmly in the back of his head. The man fell to the floor unconscious. Hot Pie and Gendry, along with Arya, took to _distracting_ the squire ensuring he could not join the fight. 

Polliver however, was not so easily defeated, and soon proved far more skilled than Sandor had initially given him credit. The Hound could feel the effects of the wine had he so quickly consumed a short time ago. Having not eaten or properly slept in over two days, it had had gone straight to his head. Leaving his fierce attacks sloppy and lacking control. It was all he could do to keep Polliver at bay. The old fighter’s strikes were steadfast and precise; it did not take long before Sandor was on the defence. The scarred warrior silently cursed the flagon he had drained, for not paying heed to Sansa’s silent concerns. His attacks were too slow, his parries too fast. It was the battle with Dondarrion all over again. Frustrated, he viciously struck at Polliver who dodged with ease; his feint smooth and exact. A breath later and Sandor felt a burning searing pain trailing from his temple to his scarred cheek. He could also feel a hot wet mess where once was the remains of his burned ear. 

Sandor felt a rush of blind rage to the pain, and the sight of Polliver’s subtle smirk only added to his fury. Oh gods! Please stop I bed you! You’re killing him!’ Sansa cried out. Sandor briefly faltered, his anger melting to fear for Sansa’s safety. The distraction, albeit brief, was enough for Polliver to make a deadly strike, one that struck his neck and nearly cost Sandor his head. As much as the gash on his neck burned and stung he knew it was not fatal. 

Despite his best efforts to gain ground it was not long before the Hound was cornered, trapped between the wall and the back bench. ‘Throw down the sword and we’ll take you to Harrenhal,’ said the bearded fighter. Sandor felt a chill to the man’s words. He knew what would become of Sansa and knew what Gregor was certain to do to her if he did not emerge victorious. These men would have to die one way or another and this too added to his desperation.

‘So Gregor can finish me off and take the Little Bird? No. You want me, you come get me,’ Sandor spat.

‘You think we won’t? You’re drunk!’ Polliver mocked. There was no denying the sneer on his lips then. 

‘Might be,’ he rasped feeling the room spin as exhaustion set in. ’But your dead.’ Placing a boot against the bench Sandor gave it a strong shove causing it to slam full force against Polliver's legs. The fighter momentarily lost his footing, enough for the Hound to impale his long sword through Polliver’s face. With a soft grunt he withdrew his blade, watching as half the man’s head tumbled to the ground. 

From behind he could hear Sansa cried out in horror, just as the familiar cold burn of a steel blade was felt cutting into his leg. In his good ear he heard the hiss of a gargled gasp, and felt the heavy weight of a body tumbling into him. Jerking away, Sandor swung his blade believing the Tickler was making an attack. He barely missed Sansa who stood before him, hands shaking; her face pale and ashen. In her fingers held a blood stained sword that was far too small for any man to wield. At her boots lay the dying form of the Tickler, still holding a short sword in his hand. 

‘Is he dead?’ Arya asked in a voice far too soft for the wolf girl. She cautiously approached, her eyes flickering between the dying man and her sister who stood frozen in place unable to move or respond. 

‘No. He’s a long time dying. The Little Bird pricked him in the bowels. That’s the end of him,’ said Sandor. ‘Your sweet sister just saved my life,’ he breathed in disbelief, only then realizing how close he had come to meeting the Stranger. The thought was fleeting, as were his many wounds, for the sight of Sansa looking so lost deeply troubled the scarred warrior.

Gently slipping an arm around Sansa’s shoulder Sandor carefully drew her away from the macabre sights at her feet. Taking his cue, Arya stepped in collecting the sword from her sister’s delicate fingers. Gendry and Hot Pie also lingered nearby but were more intent on keeping the terrified squire subdued. ‘Nothing more to see here girl, it’s all over now,’ he assured in quiet tones. When Sansa remained unresponsive, Sandor gently guided her gaze so as to meet his face. Her blue eyes were wide, glossy, and unfocussed. A soft whimper escaped her lips just and Sandor quickly slipped an arm around her petite waist, just in time for Sansa to fall faint into his arms. 

When they left the inn their pockets were full of bread, coin, and whatever else the Inn keep was willing to give, so long as they never returned. Polliver, the Tickler, and the young squire were never seen again. 


	8. By The Dividing Stream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's wounds takes a turn for the worst leaving him at crossroads of another sort. Will Sansa's love and faith in him be enough to evade death's kiss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** The Flirt Part 2  
>  **Scribbler:** KylaBosch  
>  **Summary:** A continuation of Flirt Part 1. Sansa is immediately attracted to Sandor, especially because of his scars. She immediately attempts to woo him and Sandor doesn’t know how to react. This was written for Littlebirdhound who requested this prompt for the now closed [Comment Meme #4](http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com-sandor/143042.html?thread=3130562#t3130562) over on Sansa_Sandor.  
>  **Warnings/Ratings:** K+  
>  **Pairing:** Sansa (aged 14)/Teen!Sandor (aged 17)  
>  **Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM. This includes the quotes that were taken directly from the books due to the re-enactment of this particular scene.**  
>  **Word Count:** 2096  
>  **Other notes:** This is a direct continuation of [The Flirt Part 1](http://kylathelurker.livejournal.com/4419.html)

‘Hot Pie over heard some of the locals talking about a monastery south of the Trident, it’s less than a day’s journey from here if what they say is correct,’ Sansa said as they rode on. Hot Pie, Gendry and Arya followed behind on Craven and another nameless field horse towards the mouth of the Trident where the Isle was said to be.

It had been several days since their departure from the Inn of the Crossroads. It did not take them long so spend what little coin and food that had been given to them from the inn keep. Sandor did what he could to ensure Sansa had her fill, but it was difficult. The young woman was far more intent on ensuring her sister and everyone else had their fair share of the rations. It had been four days since any of them had anything more than acorns, bark and whatever else they could find in the brush. Unfortunately, Gendry and Hot Pie were no hunters, while Arya’s skills were amateur at best. Sandor, though a skilled hunter in his own right could no longer track the prey he sought. His health was rapidly deteriorating despite his best attempts to pretend otherwise.  

The others attempted to play along but he knew better. Sandor could see the boys troubled expressions when they thought he was not looking, and hear Arya’s whispered prayers for his death and the not so quiet arguments with her sister that always followed. Only Sansa refused to pretend. His Little Bird, as always, had complete faith in him and his survival. 

‘They’re certain to have ointments and a maester to properly tend to your wounds. When you’re healed we could find work on one the farms nearby. The harvest has just begun and extra help is certain to be appreciated. Gods willing perhaps we’ll even find an abandoned ruin, one that can be easily fixed; it could become our home. Hot Pie could work as a cook and Gendry a blacksmith. I could use my needlework, be a tailor, or at least do repairs.  You could be a mercenary; protect the nearby villages,’ Sansa chirped as she gave him a squeeze. Half-starved, and exhausted from long days of being on the run, yet she could still find hope in even the bleakest of situations. 

‘What about me?’ Arya cut in. ‘What am I to do? And don’t say help Hot Pie because you know I can’t cook!’ Hot Pie shuddered clearly in agreement. Gendry stifled a chuckle to Arya’s sharp look. 

Sansa briefly considered her sister’s words. ‘I know you can be Sandor’s squire! He can teach you all he knows about fighting,’ she said with a sage like nod. Arya made a gagging noise, as she rolled her eyes. The girls continued their chatter, with Gendry and Hot Pie putting in their own comments when they could. 

For Sandor, their voices were little more than a distant buzz in the depths of his fevered thoughts. Try as he might to hide his deteriorating state, even Sansa with all her optimism could no long ignore that his wounds were slowly killing him. Sweat poured from his brow, yet the scarred warrior was shivering; chilled to the bone. He knew he should rest, yet Sandor did not dare speak of such things. With Tickler, Polliver and Gregor’s squire dead, it would only be a matter of time before Gregor would personally seek them out to settle the score. He had to protect the Little Bird and the others from his brother, or die trying. 

‘What do you think Sandor?’  Sansa’s musical voice called to him from a distance, so it felt in his fevered state. It was a struggle to focus his gaze on the young woman who turned back to watch him with obvious fear and concern. ‘My love, are you alright?’ she asked, her hands reaching out to touch his brow.

Instinctively, he leaned into her touch grateful for the cool ice that broke the fires that burned beneath his skin. ‘Little Bird,’ he murmured.

‘You’re burning up!’ Sansa exclaimed. Sandor tried to tell her he was fine, nothing a flagon of Dornish sour could not cure and perhaps a thick blanket. It was to no avail, the young woman was quick to stop their horses. With all the poise of a queen she ordered Hot Pie to go collect water from the river, and then asked Arya to grab a blanket from one of the satchels. Gendry was to find the monastery and get help. Only it was Hot Pie who rode off with Arya’s horse Craven. Everyone knew the baker was by far a superior rider compared to Gendry.

‘We have to keep moving. Gregor will bloody well find us if we don’t,’ Sandor murmured to no one in particular. The ground spun violently as he shifted in his seat, causing him to half fall off his courser Stranger. He could feel his Grandfather’s strong hands slip around his shoulders aiding him to a nearby tree. In his fevered state the scarred warrior could no longer tell what was real or imagined. ‘Just…need to catch my breath,’ he whispered to the deceased kennel master. ‘Have to keep them safe…especially my Little Bird…Gregor’s coming I know it…’

‘It’s okay. We’re safe now.’ His grandfather’s voice sounded far too much like Gendry’s own, but the young warrior did not much care. In his mind’s eye he was back in Clegane’s keep though Sandor could not recall how he arrived there. All that matter was that his brother was nowhere to be found.

‘You won’t let him hurt her. Tell me that you will keep her safe!’ he pleaded. 

‘Yes of course. We’ll keep her safe I swear it,’ his grandfather who sounded suspiciously like Gendry intoned. Sandor gave a nod, leaning against the old stone of his great hall that was in reality, a large old tree. Sandor watched on as Sansa removed the bandages on his leg. The young woman’s gasp of horror said all that needed to be said. But he felt no concern surely Grandfather would have the Maester tend to his wounds. 

‘We have to do something!’ Sansa said in a hushed voice. This time there was no sweet song of hope, only the sight of unshed tears in her eyes. 

‘I’m sorry my Lady, his wound is badly infected. Unless Hot Pie finds those monks and soon he’s not going to make it,’ warned his grandfather in a voice that was undeniably Gendry.  Sandor was about to argue to ask what had become of their maester but was soon silenced by another.

‘Just leave him, he deserves to die after what he’s done!’ his Father barked in a voice that was higher and more feminine than any grown man’s ought to be. With those words, Sandor was back at the royal court of Kings Landing. In pained silence he watched on while members of the Kingsguard beat Sansa for all to see. Yet try as he might he could not move, it were as though his legs were weighed down with stones, while his voice remained lodged in his throat. It was a scene that often replayed in his mind, especially when his heart was heavy and his belly full of wine.

In his mind’s eye he could see her struggling to stand tall, her blue eyes never wavering from his own. Even when she could longer stand from the beatings unleashed by Boros and the other members of the King’s _noble_ guard. Sansa later told him that he gave her strength during those dark hours, because she knew that she was not alone. It did little to ease his guilt and shame. 

‘My pretty Little Bird, I stood there in my white cloak and watched them beat her,’ he confessed to the phantom form of his grandfather; unbidden tears spilling down his cheeks.  ‘Bloody hells, she thought me her Florian!’ he lamented in sorrow. 

‘Sandor, do not speak of such things! You protected me from Joffrey’s wrath, kept me safe in King’s Landing and saved me from the Brotherhood. You are more noble and honourable than any knight I have ever known!’ Sansa exclaimed. The sound and sincerity of her voice drew him from the past and to the present.  

‘I couldn’t protect you from the Brotherhood. Would have left you die to with them, had they not captured me first. I should have. I should have left you with them, than force you to go on the run. They would have kept you safe, and you would never have starve,’ Sandor said shuddering as the pain of his wounds and the fever threatened to consume him. Sansa protested her arms wrapping tight around his body. Even in his fevered state Sandor found comfort in Sansa’s embrace. If he were to meet the Stranger, Sandor could not think of a better way to do it. 

From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see Arya watching on with Needle in hand. She had wanted him dead for so long surely she would not fail him now. ‘You know where the heart is?’ He asked. She nodded, but made no further move. 

‘No! Arya don’t you dare!’ Sansa cried out, her grip growing tight like a vice around his waist. As much as Sandor wanted to remain in her arms he knew what had to be done.

 _‘Sometimes it is a mercy to give an animal final rest, when to live on is no longer to live but to needlessly suffer._ The memory of his grandfather’s words, gave Sandor a new sense of determination. It was better to die a warrior’s death, than rot away beneath an old oak tree like the broken dog he believed himself to be. At the very least Gregor would have no further reason to hunt them, and his Little Bird would finally be free.

‘Do you mean to make me beg bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy! …Avenge your friend Michael!’ he rasped. As all the while Sansa pleaded for him to stop his talk of dying.

‘His name is Mycah!’ Arya growled. ‘You don’t deserve the gift of mercy!’  

‘All of you just stop it!’ Gendry snapped. ‘Hot Pie will find those monks, just like he said he would. No one is going to hurt anyone. And no one is going to die understood?’ It was Gendry’s voice he heard, but it was his grandfather who stood before him. The old kennel master always did see only the good even in the midst of utter darkness, not unlike Sansa.

Seizing the moment, Sandor reached out to grasp the old man’s wrist. ‘Grandfather,’ he whispered. ‘The wolf girl…Don’t let her,’ he began. ‘She must never become what I have become,’ his voice was barely audible even to his own ears. For all times that he wanted to beat Arya, he could not help but be reminded of the sister he once loved and lost. She like Arya, was head strong, determined and never gave a wit about ladies, princesses and the finery of court. He would not fail her either. ‘Let her be a knight, a warrior, whatever it is she desires, but do not let her…’ Sandor’s voice trailed off as he struggled to remain focussed. His sight was growing dark, and there was a cold in his bones that did nothing to cool the fires of his fever. 

 

Sansa continued to call his name, a last attempt to keep him conscious. But her voice rang hollow and quiet, as though she were shouting from deep within a well. Her embrace, once welcomed and inviting now felt dreamlike. Sandor could feel the ground beneath him vibrate to the weight of approaching horse hooves, and hear the distant buzz of voices humming just out of earshot. Feeling exhausted beyond measure, the young man closed his eyes deciding now was as good a time as any for a moments rest.

He could feel the Stranger’s icy finger tugging at his spine and knew the time had come to cross the veil for the first and final time. After a lifetime of injustice and suffering it was all too easy to just let go, and never look back. Sansa’s tear stained kisses, her whispered words of love, and the unspoken promise found in her embrace gave Sandor the strength to refuse the Stranger’s silent invitation.

It would be many years before Death would return to claim its prize.


	9. All of this Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and his rag-tag pack struggle to rebuild their lives on the Quiet Isles when word reaches them from Kingslanding pertaining to a certain Mountain that Rides..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM.  
> A shout out to Maracuyakongeen for your awesome advice and tips! =D

The hour was early and the skies were grey when Sandor along with his courser Stranger took to patrolling the river beds just beyond the Quiet Isles monastery as was his habit. With so much conflict throughout the land it was not uncommon to discover the bloated forms of dead warriors washed up along the shoreline. He preferred to have the bodies out of sight lest Sansa be witness to them upon waking. Drawing his cloak tighter to his body Sandor continued to move onward silently cursing his limp and the ice that seemed to sink deep into his bones; the unspoken warning of winter’s impending arrival. 

Unlike everyone else, Sansa was almost eager for winter’s arrival, though he would be damned if anyone knew why. The Little Bird had very few memories of winter, though what she did recall involved long nights in front of a fireplace sharing tall tales while drinking hot spice tea or some such nonsense. Despite having been born during the harsh season the young woman was unfamiliar with the bitter reality of what came with the cold. As much as he wanted to warn her of what was to come he refrained; for memories of the past was all she had left of her childhood home and he would not rob her of it.

It had been several months since Sandor first awoke bandaged and bedridden in the Quiet Isles Monastery. He had no recollection of his rescue or his journey to the monastery. Only that when he awoke his Little Bird half draped across his chest, half seated on her chair by his bed; her fingers intertwined with his own. To his surprise, Sandor learned he had been consumed by a fever for nearly a fortnight. Throughout it all Sansa had remained ever vigilant by his side, tending to his wounds, and helping the Elder Brother in any way she could to ensure his fever broke. So Arya admitted in disgust, unable to fathom her sister’s loving devotion to him. The Little Bird ever humble would shyly smile, and speak of the Elder Brother’s healing skills whenever Arya teased her for it. The scarred warrior knew better, for though he could recall much of his illness he never forgot the sound of her beautiful voice, singing to him in dreams, and the warmth of her fingers resting in his hand. 

It was not the first time the Monastery received visitors of the fairer sex, it was the first time that any remained beyond passing. Ever mindful of the girls’ privacy and the need to maintain order within the monastery the Elder Brother was quick to establish separate living quarters for the two sisters. With great care and speed the monks repaired an old shed once used to store gardening tools into a living space for the princesses to safely reside. Together Arya and Sansa made it into a place they could call home. Hot Pie and Gendry, like Sandor resided within the monastery as was common place for male travellers. Only Sandor was kept in a separate wing due to his temperament and his imposing presence.

The Elder Brother also was quick to request the church send a Silent Sister to act as the young ladies chaperone. Yet to his immense shock the church chose to send an apprentice to the reclusive Silent Sisters, a young woman who appeared no older than the Wolf-Girl. By the time the head monk learned his raven had never been received and that the young maiden had in reality fled from the Silent Sisters, it was too late.

Hot Pie and Gendry quickly proved their worth within the monastery. Hot Pie despite his young age soon left his mark in the monastery kitchens, taking what little they had and creating meals worthy of royalty. Gendry created and crafted elegant metal works that would one day decorate the grand cathedrals of Kingslanding. The monastery had little monetary means of paying for their skills, but what they could give, they freely gave enabling the two young men a means of earning their keep while setting aside savings for a future they hoped to embrace once winter had come and gone.

Sansa also readily took to the quiet life of the monastery. Her love of flowers led her to discover her love of gardening. It did not take long for her to master the art of growing rare if not beautiful blossoms. It did not take long for her to transform the gardens of the small Monastery into a forest full of colourful scented blooms and fresh food. When she was not found working the gardens Sansa would help the Elder Brother and the other healers tend to the wounded who found themselves in the monastery’s care. Often she would sing to them, or tell sweet tales, anything to help the dying make their final sleep in peace. In spite of his best attempts, there were times when Sandor felt the familiar twinge of jealousy at the attention she would give these strangers. Sansa sensing his trepidation was quick to alleviate his fears in whatever way she could. Nor did not take long for everyone in the monastery to learn of her beloved acts of heroism and her hopes to one day marry the man the world once knew as the Hound. Yet all of his doubts, even he could not even he could not deny that his Little Bird had found a place of peace within the monastery’s walls. It was here that she truly flourished, giving hope to the lost and peace to the despairing. 

Meanwhile, Arya and Sandor struggled to find their place within the monastery. As his wounds began to heal the scarred warrior sought a means of earning his keep. Despite the monastery’s peaceful nature, it did not take long for the war to arrive on its shorelines. Upon catching sight of dead corpses awash on shore Sandor took to digging graves earning him the title of _gravedigger_ amongst the locals of the region. He did it not for the gods, and certainly not for the men who died. He did it to honour Sansa who firmly believed that even the most vile of men (or women) deserved a proper end. It did not take long for Arya to join him during the early hours of morning. Often she would be seen practicing with her sword _Needle_ while Sandor dug graves in silence. Upon occasion he would give advice on how to improve upon her skills. Other times it was Arya who came to his aid, helping him dig when his healing body would no longer permit him to finish what he had started.

Having completed his patrol, Sandor made his slow return to the monastery’s graveyard. Upon depositing the corpses from Stranger’s back he returned the black courser to the stables. Soon after, he returned to the graveyard where he began to shovel a deep grave. So lost was he in his thoughts that Sandor did not notice Sansa’s approach until she had placed a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he immediately tightened his grip around the spade’s handle; instinctively prepared for an attack what would not come. The young woman sensing his mental state swiftly took a step back enabling him to give her full attention. When Sansa gave a smile that did not quite reach her troubled eyes, Sandor knew something was wrong. ‘Spit it out girl. What is it?’ he barked. It was not his intention to be so harsh, but the scarred warrior was not about to pretend everything was fine either. Having since grown accustomed to his direct nature Sansa merely took his hands in silence. Her unspoken assurances did little to ease the concern felt to the sight of her troubled expression. 

‘What happened? Did one of those buggering monks hurt you?’ Sandor began, his imagination already running wild to the worst possible scenarios. The monks may have been nothing short of proper and respectful towards them, but Sandor knew the nature of man. He also knew what a lifetime of solitude from women, especially one as beautiful as Sansa could do to a man. The idea of anyone hurting even a hair on his Little Bird’s head immediately filled him with blinding rage. 

‘Gods no! Sandor how could you even think such a thing?’ Sansa balked. ‘The Elder Brother and his fellow brethren have been nothing but proper towards Arya and I,’ she gently chastised him. He could not fathom how after everything she could still remain incredibly naïve. She was every bit her Father’s daughter. ‘Besides what fool would dare invoke your rage, my love,’ she added rising to the balls of her feet to gently kiss his marred lips. Her assurance was both readily accepted, and thoroughly enjoyed.

‘Then what is this about?’ he said, feeling his rage fade into genuine concern. Sansa hesitated as she drew in a deep breath. The only time he had ever seen her look so troubled was when he was dying of the fever by the river’s edge. It did little to ease his growing fear for her.

‘The Elder Brother received word this morning from the citadel in Kingslanding,’ she began in quiet tones. ‘It’s about your brother, Gregor.’ Sandor frowned as the spade’s handle creaked in protest to his vice like grip. Anything news that involved the Mountain was certain to be bad news. Sansa carefully relinquished the spade he held and set it on the frost covered soil before taking his free hand with her own. 

‘He died after a trial in combat. It’s said he was killed by Prince Oberyn of House Martell who is also now dead. They believe the Prince had used a poisoned spear to deliver his killing blow…’ 

To her words, the young man felt his world had just been removed from under his feet as emotions, memories, and dreams once forgotten warred within him. First there was rage, fury to the fact he was not the one who delivered the killing blow. He had been already denied so much and now the gods saw it fit to rob him of his final revenge. Then he felt a rush of relief. For no longer could the Mountain ever pose a threat to his beloved Little Bird or anyone else for that matter. Underlying beneath it all was a deep sense of sorrow. A sadness for all that had once been and was now lost; all that could have been in another time, another place. In stunned silence Sandor stood frozen in place, his large hands tightly gripping Sansa’s petite fingers, as though fearing should he let go he would be truly lost.

Falling silent, Sansa disentangled her fingers from his hands so as to draw him into a tight embrace. Holding the scarred warrior close, she gently whispered, ‘you are not alone, my love. You will never be alone again. We are your family and never again can he hurt you or anyone else,’ Try as he might to draw strength from the truth of her words, a greater part of him feared the future that had now become his reality. 

Sandor’s life was always overshadowed by the sins of his elder brother. He knew all too well what it meant to be judged not for his own actions, be it good or bad, rather for Gregor’s sins. He needed only look in the mirror to see his brother’s handiwork, and to be reminded of whom ultimately would have the final word in his destiny. Yet for all his dashed dreams Sandor had since grown to accept the hardships and the unforgiving ugliness that was his life. It was the most he could ever hope for and so he did what he could to survive it as best as he knew how. 

Nothing could have prepared him for his Little Bird, or the Wolf-Girl, and her rag-tag pack. Hatred, rage, and disillusionment were all he had come to expect of his life. In time he even learned to embrace it, for was simple and easy to understand. He knew where he stood, and who his enemies were. Acceptance, love, hope and the promise of a future were far more complicated, and far more uncertain. It was also something he secretly desired more than anything else in the world; a dream he never in his wildest dreams imagined would become his reality. The realization both thrilled and frightened him in a way he did never known. If this was his happy ending, why did he only feel fear?

‘What will become of me? What will become of us?’ he asked feeling every bit the little boy who watched on as his dreams were consumed by his brother’s fire. 

Taking his cheeks into her hands Sansa stared up at him, her blue eyes filled with such love he had never imagined would be directed at him. ‘You will become the man you were always meant to be. You will bring honour to your Grandfather’s legacy, and you will continue to make me so proud to stand by your side. Whatever lies ahead we will face it together; you and I, always.’ Deeply moved by the sincerity of her words, and the love he saw in her eyes Sandor wrapped his arms around her petite waist and tightly held her. Burying his face in the crook of her neck the young man breathed a shaky sigh, feeling as though he had spent his entire life holding his breath waiting for an end. Now the end had finally come, and for the first time he was truly free. 

No longer was Sandor forced to live in the shadow of his brother’s dark legacy, or in fear that Gregor would one day unleash his vengeance upon those he loved most. He was now free to do live the life he had always wanted, but did not dare hope to experience. The time had finally come to do what he sought to do all along; to give the Little Bird the happy ever after ending she rightfully deserved.


	10. The Beginning of Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor prepares for his wedding and contemplates the memory of those who believed that one day even he would have his happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** All this belongs to GRRM.

It took nearly a fortnight for Sandor to find the courage to speak to the Elder Brother about marrying Sansa Stark. It took several more before he found a gift of proposal that was worthy of his Little Bird. With pieces of crystalized glass stones that he had found in the soil by the riverbed, and steel links from his own chest plate Sandor had Gendry carefully craft a pair of earrings. A gift that was symbolic both of her beauty and her importance to him.

Standing before a small cracked mirror dressed in his finest garbs Sandor breathed a shaky sigh. Behind him stood Gendry and Hot Pie chatted and japed; debating who was the most dashing and wondering if Arry would actually wear a dress to the ceremony. It had been several moons since the scarred warrior had proposed to the northern princess. Several moons since she had fulfilled his deepest wish, and erased the last of his fears with a single word: yes.

Ignoring the two young men who continued their silly banter, Sandor took to the ardent task of making himself presentable for the young woman who was to become his bride. His hands shook as he carefully parted his hair so as to cloak the puckered flesh of his ruined scalp. Smoothing his black tunic and pants for the umpteenth time Sandor struggled to bury his anxious thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to give his Little Bird the happy ending she rightfully deserved. He had no titles, no claim to power, and certainly no dragons either. Though heir to Clegane Keep, Sandor knew returning home would only place their lives in danger; the lions would be quick to pounce.

Burying his doubts, Sandor turned his thoughts to the dream that had haunted his rest the previous night; a strange recollection of his Grandmother’s final words to him; a blessing that had been given shortly before she had crossed the veil. 

In dreams he was but a young boy living in his grandfather’s keep. He had been summoned by his grandmother who sought to see him one last time before the Stranger came to take her home. Sitting on the edge of his grand-parents bed he watched on as the elderly wildling woman placed a frail hand onto his scarred cheek. She wore a smile that made her look far younger than her aged years. In her grey eyes was a strange gleam, as though she were looking through him to something or someone beyond. When she spoke her voice was strong, clear and direct. It had made him feel as though he were a man grown, not a boy of nine name days.

_‘You were born of the Father and of the Mother,’_ she began, her smile turning enigmatic.

_You were raised by the Crone. And blessed by the Warrior._ she continued; her voice growing distant while the stone walls of her bedchambers eroded away, until Sandor found himself standing alone in the old rose gardens where his little sister used to play.   
_‘One day you will call the Blacksmith your brother, and will be kissed by the Stranger,’_ came his sister’s musical voice. _‘But it is the Maiden, whose heart you will hold.’_ she added, with a smile that was missing one front tooth. 

Reaching out to take her into his arms, for he had missed her dearly, Sandor instead found himself clasping arms with his grandfather. Beyond the elder kennel master lie Blackwater Bay and the great lands of the North. 

_‘You will be feared and respected throughout the kingdoms; though no one will ever call you **Ser.** You will bring honour and nobility to where there once was none. You will one day be a prince and you will be well-loved.’_ Spoke his Grandfather in the familiar timber voice Sandor once knew and loved. Shortly after, he had woken from his dreams alone and back in the Quiet Isles monastery. 

Sandor could still recall silently scoffing his Grandmother’s blessing. He was so certain that her parting words had been spoken out of pity, not green sight. That morning, the truth of her words had become entirely clear. If only he had known… 

Lost to childhood memories and the dream he had experienced a short time ago, Sandor did not notice the Elder brother entering his chambers, or his friends’ departure. 

‘Your Grandfather would have been so proud to see you now,’ the old monk said by way of greeting, drawing Sandor’s thoughts back to the present. There was little he did not know about the kennelmaster, for the scarred warrior had spoken of him often. Sandor felt a pang of sorrow to the Elder Brother’s words. How he wished his grandparents and sister could have been witness to this joyous day. If only to know that Gregor’s reign of terror had met its end; that not all dreams need end in nightmares. They deserved better fates than what had been granted them. It made Sandor all the more determined that he would honour their memories in whatever way he could. 

‘My father always believed Gregor would become House Clegane’s greatest legacy,’ Sandor began the irony of his situation setting in. ‘Now he burns in the seven hells; the great mountain knight of worms.’ Since discovering his brother’s death he had thought little of the Mountain that Rides. It was a startling revelation, one that was not entirely unwelcomed.

The Elder Brother placed a hand on the great warrior’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘You are House Clegane’s greatest legacy and hope now. I know you will not fail in this,’ he confided, speaking in his usual quiet tones.

His words immediately reminded Sandor of Sansa’s own spoken earlier that morning. He could still see the princess’ shy, yet sweet smile as she presented to him with a cloak she had personally made bearing the sigil of his house. Finer craftsmanship the warrior had not seen in all his ten and eight years. Not even the white cloak of the Kingsguard could compare to the loving detail that had been put into its creation. 

With great care he removed the autumn cloak from its resting place within a small wooden chest. His fingers gently caressed the detailed silhouettes that represented three black hounds his grandfather had loved and lost. Placing the yellow cloak over his broad shoulders, Sandor was reminded of the words his beloved had spoken to him as they stood on the banks of the river.

_‘This is my gift to you, may you wear it with pride, always. For you are greater, nobler and more honourable than any knight or warrior I have ever known. On this day, you will be forever my prince, and I will be your lady wife._

Filled with joy and trepidation Sandor confessed to his fears at having failed to give his Little Bird a marriage celebration worthy of her fairy tale dreams. He would never forget her response. 

_’I am surrounded by my family, my friends, and I am to marry my beloved. What more could I desire in a wedding?’_ she said, wearing a smile that shone as bright as the sun. Elated and humbled by the sincerity of her words, Sandor kissed her lips, before whispering words he never imagined he would ever say. 

Together they had departed, hand in hand, for the monastery to complete the final preparations of their big day.

‘What is taking you so long?’ Arya’s voice called from beyond the heavy wooden door. ‘We’re all waiting for you and the Elder Brother to begin the ceremony!’ she groused as she played with the door’s handle. Sandor could hear the muffled voices of Hot Pie and Gendry arguing with her demanding she respect the Hound’s privacy, so that he may prepare himself in peace. The wolf-girl of course would have none of it. Fortunately Sansa’s musical voice was heard dissuading her sister from bursting through the door and making a scene.

‘I believe it is time to make our departure for the old weir tree,’ the Elder Brother said, a wry smile playing on his lips. ‘I dare say your good-sister is as eager to begin, as you and your bride are.’

Casting one last look at his reflection in the worn mirror Sandor scoffed back a laugh. No amount of grooming would ever make him comely, yet in Sansa’s eyes he was every bit the handsome noble hero. Had he believed in the gods he might have given a prayer, or ten in thanks. Instead he smiled to himself, feeling every bit a king about to meet his queen as he buckled his great sword to his hip. As he departed his chambers, the warrior was certain he saw from the corner of his eyes the phantom figure of his Grandfather watching on, a proud smile playing on his lips. 

A short time later, Sandor stood before the Elder Brother beneath a faceless heart tree that was as aged and old as the forest where it remained hidden. Behind him stood Gendry and Hot Pie, both dressed in their finest. By the chubby young baker stood the former Silent Sister who had since become his sweetheart.

Dressed in a gown of forest green and wearing the snow white cloak of her family’s sigil Sansa approached them her arm linked through Arya’s own. At the sight of his beautiful Little Bird Sandor felt his heart race and his breath catch in his throat. As in that moment, Sansa looked every bit the Northron beauty he so often envisioned upon hearing his grandmother’s fairy tales of old. 

The ceremony was small and simple, consisting only members of their _pack_ as well as some of the monks, and locals whom they had befriended during their stay on the Quiet Isles. It was not the grand sort of wedding Sansa once dreamed of as a little girl. It was the wedding Sandor never believed that he would ever experience. Sansa could not have been happier as she exchanged her vows. Sandor could not have been more humbled or proud as he gently draped his cloak of autumn across his Little Bird’s delicate shoulders. With a kiss of passion and shy whispered words of love the two were pronounced husband and wife, as all around them the first flakes of snow began to fall from a cloudy, grey sky. 

Hours later, after a hearty meal and joyous celebrations, the newly wedded lovers departed for a once ruined cottage that their family and friends had repaired in anticipation of their wedding night. It was no castle, no great Keep but for the Hound and his Little Bird it would become more than just a safe haven from a long torrential winter. It would be their sanctuary, and a place of peace from the chaos that threatened to destroy the kingdoms around them.


	11. Narrators Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the arrival of winter Westeros undergoes a great many changes, for some it is the end of everything. For the Cleganes it is but the beginning of a bright new future.

Winter had fully descended upon the land, yet Sandor, and his beloved Sansa did not fear its icy touch. The stone cabin once dilapidated and forgotten had long since become their home. It had become a place of happy memories; a sanctuary from the storms of war and the darkness that long threatened to consume the land.

Shortly after their wedding Arya and Gendry departed for the Sapphire Isles to train under Lady Brienne of Tarth’s guidance. It would be another year before they too were wed. Hot Pie however, remained serving at the monastery alongside with his newly wedded wife. Under the baker’s guidance, Sansa furthered her skills in cooking, while the former Silent Sister taught Sandor how to fully overcome the restraints of his wounded leg. Through hard work and much encouragement at the hands of his lady wife, Sandor was once more able to fully wield a sword again, while Sansa mastered the art of fine cuisine. 

Isolated from the world beyond the Quiet Isles the two lovers lived their lives blissfully unaware of all that had changed throughout Westeros. Not even Queen Daenerys Targaryen grand victory over the lions, or her coronation had reached their home until many moons later. Wizened from her experiences, the Dragon Queen was quick to secure her claim; forging peaceful alliance with the self-proclaimed kingdoms. Only the foolish dared to oppose her or the dragons she wielded. In the end there remained only one kingdom beyond her reach: the North. With the future of Westeros under her care the Queen turned her attentions to the past, capturing those who aided in the ruin of the Targaryen’s rule. Well aware of Sandor’s marriage to the Northern princess Daenerys took no time to summon the man once known as the Hound to court. It was her intent to both forge an alliance with the remaining Starks, and to learn the full truth behind the Lannister’s once most loyal subjects.

It was for this reason that Sandor was summoned to court to face trial for his brother’s crimes. Though it had been some years since the Mountain faced his gruesome demise, Gregor’s shadow had once more threatened to ruin all that Sandor loved most of so he believed. Sansa, well aware of court politics was optimistic. She knew the importance of her position, and of the Queen’s wish to forge an alliance with her house. She was equally confident the time had come to clear her beloved’s name of the taint that had been Gregor’s legacy. Drawing upon past experiences in court, Sansa opened a dialogue with the Mother of Dragons. Upon receiving a message from the Queen, stating permission to plead her case the young couple began their long treacherous return to Kingslanding. 

Upon their arrival the Clegane’s were granted comfortable quarters, and permitted to roam the Red Keep to an extent, despite the fact Sandor was considered, by most, little more than a prisoner until he stood trial. However, it did not take long for Lady Sansa to befriend the elusive Queen Daenerys. Sandor did not need to guess at how it came to pass. He knew enough of Daenerys history to understand that the two women shared a lot in common, both in history and the struggles they were forced to endure at the hands of their enemies. Aware of Daenerys wish to unite the Northern Kingdom with the Iron Throne Sansa sought to negotiate with the Queen and her councillors on behalf of her little brother Rickon, whom had been rescued by Lord Stannis Baratheon, and was still too young to rule. It was as much her desire, as it was Daenerys own, to forge an allegiance between the Northern Kingdom and the Iron Throne. Both women knew their people needed peace, now more than ever before. However, it was the not the only reason Sansa Clegane sought audience with the Queen and her councillors.

It would be a fortnight later before Sandor learned of his wife’s timely intervention. To his immense surprise, and the utter shock her court subjects, the dragon queen had granted him a full pardon. Clegane Keep and its villages would be fully restored to him for he was the rightful heir. In exchange, the Northern Kingdom was to swear allegiance to House Targaryen. House Clegane too was to serve and defend the dragons should the need arise. Uncertain what to make of this turn of events, Sandor readily agreed to the terms, grateful his family would no longer live in fear of the future, or bear the burden of his brother’s dark legacy. With the end of his trial and Sandor’s freedom proclaimed the two departed for Clegane Keep, where they soon learned, much to their elation that Sansa was with child. 

Winter continued for several more years, ensuring hardships at every turn. However, the young couple took joy in each other, and in their ever growing family. Clegane keep once barren, cold and threatening had become a place where royalty, nobility and smallfolk alike were readily welcomed. Through hard work, Sandor was able to ensure the security, safety and well-being of those under his care. While smallfolk immediately loved his beautiful wife, in time even the much feared Hound came to earn their loyalty and respect. 

House Clegane was never truly able to be rid of its dark history. Nor would Sandor or Sansa ever claim great wealth power or fame in their lifetime. Though they had experienced many trials and tribulations there was no denying that the remainder of their long years were filled with joy, love and laughter. 

In time their happily ever after had become a local legend. A fairy tale that would pass on from generation to generation, about a beautiful princess whose love saved a fearsome beast, from the dark curse that had befallen him. 

What once began as a horrible nightmare, had through the love of one, become a tale as romantic and heroic as the dreams Sandor once cherish as a little boy. So it was that their memories would live on forever in the minds and hearts of many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** So ends my series 'The Flirt'. A huge shout out to all those who stuck it out to the end. Also a huge thank you to everyone who took the time to give me kudos and for encouraging me with all your kind words. You all know how to make a gal's day!! =D


End file.
